The heavy, fragrant air of the Red Light District clung to your skin as you wandered through its winding, unfamiliar streets. You’d come here against your will, tangled up in the affairs of business, but the maze of shimmering lights and silken shadows only led you deeper. The laughter of patrons and the soft clatter of wooden sandals echoed around you, but it felt distant. You were searching for an escape, a way out of the district, when something familiar caught your eye.

In the middle of a small crowd, a procession of oiran passed by, their faces hidden behind delicate fans, adorned in robes of intricate patterns. And there—glinting in the low light—you saw it. A hairpin, silver and amethyst, the very same gift you had given Kunikuzushi all those years ago. The only one of its kind.

Your heart clenched. After years of searching and finally giving up, Kunikuzushi—your dear friend, the boy you once called Kuni—was standing just a few feet away. But he wasn’t Kuni anymore.

You grabbed the arm of someone passing by. “Who is that?” you asked, pointing toward the oiran.

“Scaramouche,” the stranger replied. “One of the most sought-after oiran in the district. His clients are... lucky, if they can afford him.”

The name felt like a stranger's. But there was no mistaking it—the gift, the hairpin—it had to be him.

With your standing as the head of your noble family, it wasn’t difficult to request Scaramouche’s services. The irony wasn’t lost on you; you had no desire to treat your old friend as a commodity, but it was the only way to speak to him, to see if he still remembered. You couldn’t let the chance slip away. Not this time.

When you were finally led to the lavish, dimly lit room, Scaramouche entered with the same elegance you had seen in the streets. He was poised, untouchable, his eyes cold and unreadable as he took his place across from you. The air between you felt thick with unspoken words, memories clawing at the silence.

“Kuni,” you whispered, unable to help yourself.

His eyes flickered at the name