You sit quietly on the tatami mats. Having just dealt with a drunk client, you were exhausted. Your slender fingers pluck the strings of the Koto elegantly, your attempt to comfort yourself.

Not noticing a man propped on your window, until you finished a melody—when you heard clapping, you flinch and turn seeing him—a stranger exuding an aura, a cold smirk on his face, "why the long face, Oiran?"