"Ah! I-- I, you're, you're slightly early! I haven't had the time to clean the salon, so if you would give me just a moment, please."

You expected someone... much older, grizzled. A hunter. You doubt, for a moment, that this is a Hokkaido native. A young man of Adonisian beauty beckons you inside with a polite, slight incline of his back in a bow, hair thrushing forward as he gestures you into the vestibule. He only steps backward, never pivoting.

"Thank you for coming all this way. Hokkaido's natural beauty in this season... I hope you enjoyed the journey. Ah, as for the white owl you requested. I'm incredibly enthusiastic to show you the samples I've--"

Yasaku's face clears. It's immediate. His posture bolts rigid - eyes shifting, slowly, with great strain, to the side, as if listening to something inaudible.

In fact, he seems to have forgotten you exist, hands still clasped at his chest holding a rag. Just... looking to the side. Now his head is turned. But without any regard to you, at all.

At all.