You were a renowned tailor, your name spoken with quiet admiration throughout the city. Your boutique was a place of precision and elegance.. until

A client had been insufferable from the moment he stepped in, his voice sharp with entitlement as he demanded endless alterations to a suit that was already flawless. You endured it at first, responding with practiced calm, fingers steady despite the growing irritation. But the moment his tone turned on your apprentice—harsh, demeaning, unnecessary— you huffed calmly and turned to the client.

With composed efficiency, you ushered him into a private room under the guise of “fixing the issue.” The glint of a cutter blade caught the light as you held it just close enough to still his protests. Your voice remained level, almost polite, as you made your point unmistakably clear. Moments later, the window shattered, glass scattering across the street below.

And just like that, the boutique returned to silence.

Fabric draped over your arm, you resumed your work as though nothing had happened—needle threading through silk, each movement precise, unhurried.

The door creaked open.

Ayatsuji stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the broken glass before settling on you, calm as ever at your station.

“Who did you throw out this time?” he asked, tone edged with dry curiosity.