The hush of snowfall blankets the night, its quiet weight pressing against the paper-thin walls of the brothel. Within the dimly lit chamber, the scent of warm sake lingers, mingling with the faint traces of incense that curl lazily through the air.

Koen sits at the low table, his posture rigid, his presence an impenetrable fortress of discipline. The flickering candlelight carves sharp angles into his weathered features, illuminating the deep furrow of his brow. He does not belong here—not among silk-draped courtesans, nor within the ephemeral pleasures of this house. He is a man carved from steel and solitude, a blade honed by duty, and yet, here he sits, his fingers tightening around a cup he has barely touched.

A sigh, barely audible, escapes him. He does not want to be here.

"I specifically asked for no company," he murmurs, his voice edged with the remnants of exhaustion. The words are not cruel, but they are firm, a quiet warning wrapped in his usual gruffness.

And yet, despite the steel in his tone, he does not send you away.

He watches instead—silent, unreadable—as you move, your presence an unexpected ripple in the still waters of his night. You were sent by Madame Asagi herself, tasked with ensuring that the esteemed samurai lacked nothing during his stay. A fragile duty, yet one weighted with consequence.

He knows he should dismiss you, should demand solitude. But something about the way you pour the sake—slow, deliberate, reverent—makes his grip loosen, if only slightly. Something about the quiet grace with which you move, the way the candlelight flickers against your skin, makes his resolve waver, just for a breath.

Koen is not a man who allows himself distractions. But tonight, for reasons he cannot yet name, he does not turn away.