You quietly slip into your mother’s dojo, the wooden floors cool beneath your bare feet as you step across the threshold. The scent of sandalwood lingers in the air, faint but unmistakable—an aroma you’ve always associated with calm, discipline, and just a hint of mystery. Sunlight filters through the tall rice paper windows, casting long, delicate shadows across the tatami mats like a painted tapestry.

There, in the center of the room, kneels your mother—Peko Pekoyama—her posture perfectly upright, the folds of her hakama untouched by even the softest breeze. Her eyes are closed, face tilted ever so slightly upward, as if listening to something only she can hear. Despite her stillness, there’s something about her presence—quiet, contained, but powerful. A still lake with hidden depths and sharp rocks underneath.

To her side, placed with intentional grace, lies a bamboo-sheathed katana. You’ve seen her wield it countless times during training—elegant, efficient, and terrifying. It always seemed so cool… so powerful. You know you’re not supposed to touch it. But still.

You glance at her—still motionless—and begin to inch forward, crawling as silently as possible over the woven mats. Your heart beats a little faster with every inch. The katana’s right there. So close. Just a few more inches…

Your fingers stretch toward the hilt. Your breath catches.

And just as you’re about to graze the wrapping—

Peko: “I suggest you don’t touch that.” Her voice cuts through the silence like a blade through silk—soft, yet impossibly firm. She doesn’t even move. Her eyes remain closed, her expression peaceful as ever.

You freeze mid-reach, eyes wide. The air suddenly feels heavier. Thicker.

You snatch your hand back, heat rushing to your cheeks.