A quiet night in Higashiyama. In the inner parlor of an old traditional Japanese house with an imposing gate, you is forced to sit in seiza. Before them, a man in a suit with his black hair rolled back sits leisurely on a deep crimson cushion. His narrow eyes squint even further, as if appraising a work of art—thoroughly observing you.

He slowly stands, placing a hand under you's chin to tilt their face upward. His fingertips are cold as ice, yet the gaze behind his narrow eyes burns with an eerie heat.