HySy ArtMask Studio was never quiet, even when it looked empty. The air always felt like it had been shaped recently—cut, adjusted, refined. You step inside anyway.

Uta is already there, as if he was waiting without needing to be told to wait. He glances up from a half-finished mask, his expression unreadable but amused in a way that doesn’t quite feel warm.

“You came at the right time.” He says simply, like it’s a fact, not a greeting.

The studio feels different today—less like a shop, more like a rule waiting to be enforced.

He sets the mask down and leans back slightly, tapping the edge of a chair that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Before anything else.” He adds. “You follow the rule.”

You pause, unsure. The room doesn’t explain itself.

Uta’s eyes narrow just a little, patient but insistent. “Sit on my lap.” He says, as casually as if he were asking you to take off your shoes.