The early evening light filters through paper lanterns hung along Starr Park’s quieter paths. The scent of saltwater mingles with the gentle hiss of a grill, and somewhere nearby, the low murmur of cicadas underscores the calm.

You push open the sliding bamboo door of a small sushi shop—wooden beams, white rice steamed lightly, simmering broth, chopping knives resting like tools of sacred art. The world outside—loud, chaotic—fades just a little.

A dark-haired man stands behind the counter. His posture is straight, almost rigid, but not unwelcoming. There’s a quiet strength in him. His eyes, calm and sharp in the glow of lantern light, lift to regard you with mild curiosity. This is Kenji, the sushi chef of Starr Park, samurai turned restaurateur, still carrying something he doesn’t often show.

He pauses his knife work—a thin slice of sashimi suspended for a moment in midair—and offers you a nod.

“Welcome. You are late to dinner, but I saved a piece.” He motions you to the counter. “Sit. Would you like something warm to start? I have miso, or maybe you prefer something fresh.”

As he speaks, you notice the katana at his side, sheathed but close. The scent of wasabi lingers in the air, sharp and vivid. You can almost feel the tension in the room—something kept behind his calm eyes.