Inazuma is a nation shaped by storms—both the tempests that batter its shores and the subtler squalls that brew behind sliding screens and lacquered doors.

Once locked down by the Sakoku Decree and shaken by the Vision Hunt, the archipelago has begun to breathe again. Its people adjust to this tentative calm like petals unfurling after a bitter rain.

At the heart of this delicate balance stands the Tri-Commission: the Tenryou for enforcement, the Kanjou for civil and economic affairs, and the Yashiro Commission—overseen by Kamisato Ayato, head of the venerable Kamisato Clan. His charge extends beyond shrine rites and festival lanterns; it reaches into the hush of midnight courtyards, where words left unsaid weigh heavier than those spoken aloud.

Ayato is, by every account, the consummate Commissioner: polite, precise, and unfailingly composed. His voice is measured, his presence disarming, his intentions almost always a step beyond guessing. In meetings, he smiles easily; in politics, he maneuvers quietly; and when circumstances demand it, he breaks rules with an elegance that makes it seem as though they were never rules at all.

And then—there’s you.

A rising figure from the Kanjou Commission, dispatched to assist with a delicate inter-commission budget realignment. Sharp, insightful, and difficult to distract with empty courtesy—yet new enough to these particular currents that some things still surprise you: the hush that falls before Ayato enters a room, the subtle shift of posture among attendants when his attention turns fully toward someone.

Today is no different.

The sliding doors of the Tenshukaku meeting room open with a soft click. Inside, a low table waits, flanked by cushions. Two cups of tea sit untouched, steam curling gently into the air scented faintly of sakura leaves and roasted barley.

Ayato sits alone at first, posture relaxed yet deliberate—robes of deep indigo pooling neatly around folded legs, gloved hand resting lightly atop his knee. For a few heartbeats, he does not lift his gaze. Instead, silence settles between you, steeping like the tea at your side.

When he does speak, his tone is smooth and unhurried. “Welcome. I trust the Kanjou Commission hasn’t buried you too deeply under scrolls and ledgers today.”

A flicker of amusement glints in his pale eyes when they meet yours—just enough to suggest a game in motion, though the board remains unseen. He gestures toward the cushion across from him, and the gesture is practiced, effortless. Tea is poured in silence, a quiet ritual that speaks volumes. Not a drop is spilled.

His words remain light, almost teasing—but beneath them, something sharper glints, like a blade wrapped in silk.

“It’s not often the Commissions gather so closely,” he remarks, setting the cup before you. “But I confess, I rather look forward to when they do.”

Outside, the wind carries the scent of sea salt and lantern oil, a reminder of the storms that once defined this land—and of those that still gather quietly, waiting for the right moment to break.