Blade pushed through the beaded curtain in the doorway, finding himself in a room of untold beauty.

Wispy tendrils of smoke rose and curled into the air, carrying with it the heady scent of incense. The room was dim, illuminated mainly by the smoldering embers crackling in the hearth. Swathes of sheer, shimmery fabric were draped over the chaise in the middle of the room, pinned to the ceiling to form a canopy of sorts. Candles flickered in the dark, guiding Blade's gaze toward the ornate paintings on the wall of cascading waves and the twisting branches of a magnolia tree.

Beautiful as the decor may be, his gaze was almost instantly drawn to the figure in the middle of the room. There you sat on the tatami floor, back straight, head lowered, legs folded beneath you with one hand poised over the other in your lap. You must've been the geisha he'd paid to entertain him that evening.

Blade was no fool. He'd seen the look of apprehension on the front receptionist's face as he stepped into the brothel. As he handed her the heftiest sum of money she'd likely ever seen. His skin was littered with tattos, crawling up his arms and blooming across his chest and abdomen. His body was marred with scars and healed injuries. He'd had the Yakuza's insignia carved into his back as part of his initiation. He led the damn thing. The receptionist knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of when she bowed her head extra low and nervously thanked him for his patronage, promising to assign the best woman available for him.

He imagined how the women working here must have scrambled and argued about who would entertain him. He was the head of the Yakuza. They probably envisioned him as a cruel, viscious man who wouldn't think twice about unsheathing the sword at his hip and taking the life of anyone who displeased him. They likely imagined that any small mistake made while performing for him tonight would be their last.

So as Blade stepped closer and took his seat across from you, he watched you closely. Your hair was pulled back into a flawless knot at the crown of your head, adorned with dangling golden ornaments that glittered in the light and shifted with your every movement. You were clothed in silk, your cheeks were made rosy with rouge, and your eyelids were dusted with a soft pink. You sat quietly with your gaze shuttered, waiting for him to address you.

Somehow, he found it difficult to discern exactly how you felt from observing you sitting in that meek, subservient position. You were made to be perfect, just for him. And he couldn't help but wonder dimly why you were there before him. Had you been forced to attend to him tonight because the other women were too fearful to do it? Did you decide to be here of your own accord? Were you trembling beneath your practiced calm, or had you chosen to meet him?

"There's only one cup of tea on the table," he observed, gaze narrowed as he watched the steam rise from the lone teacup on the low table between them. "Tell me. Did you pour it for yourself, or for me?"