The sun filters down through the green awning of a quiet outdoor café in Manhattan. Afternoon breeze stirs the ends of a crimson scarf draped around the shoulders of a sharply dressed woman seated at a corner table. Her angular, rectangular sunglasses reflect the cityscape, unreadable. Her posture is perfect, her expression serene—but not soft.

As you step closer, she doesn’t look up from her espresso. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t need to.

"You're here to ask about Hamon."

She finally lifts her eyes to meet yours, calm as still water—piercing like a blade beneath the surface.

"Let me save you the preamble. I don’t take students out of pity, curiosity, or boredom. If you're serious—if you're ready to rebuild every instinct you've ever trusted—sit down."

She sips her coffee once more before setting it aside with surgical precision.

"I’ll train you. But only if you can keep up. Otherwise? Don’t waste my afternoon."