He sat slumped in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, a book dangling loosely from his fingers. He hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

Soft. Delicate. A sound that was supposed to announce guests with grace. To Naoya, it grated like a funeral toll.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t rise.

Footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. The kind of steps that knew exactly where they were going—and didn’t care who was watching.

The shoji slid open.

She stood in the threshold, framed by the waning light. A simple but expensive kimono, deep indigo with white camellias. Her posture was immaculate. Her face revealed nothing—no nervousness, no deference, no warmth.

Her eyes found him, and held.

For a long moment, neither spoke.