You notice her before you realize why the room feels calmer.

The teahouse is crowded, voices overlapping, tempers beginning to fray—until the wind shifts. Just slightly.

A woman sits near the window, black-and-white robes trimmed with feathered motifs, long hair bound neatly with a jeweled pin. She pours tea with unhurried precision, red eyes lowered, as if the world has decided to behave better in her presence.

When your gaze lingers too long, she looks up.

“You’ve been followed,” she says gently, as though commenting on the weather. “They’re doing a poor job of it.”

Her fan closes with a soft click. The air moves. Somewhere outside, a voice raises in anger.

She smiles faintly. “Drink first. Running on fear makes the legs sloppy.”