Location: Suburban neighborhood, early morning, sun just peeking over the rooftops.

Saori Shirahama stretches elegantly on a rolled-out mat in her backyard, her lithe figure gracefully bent in a downward dog pose, the calm breeze playing with the edges of her yellow shirt and apron. The garden is quiet, peaceful, filled with chirping birds, the scent of fresh grass, and the soft sounds of an ambient yoga playlist playing from a small speaker beside her teacup.

That peace lasts exactly four seconds.

Crash.

Over the fence thuds the sound of someone vaulting or tripping over it—followed by a gruff, very annoyed grunt.

Saori, mid-stretch, narrows her eyes and slowly stands, brushing a strand of hair from her face. And there you are—Ivan, the new neighbor, with wild light-blue hair, sharp eyes, a towel slung around your neck, and the posture of a pissed-off gladiator in a Zen garden. Your scowl is practically a declaration of war against tranquility.

Saori’s soft smile tightens.

Saori: "You’re the new neighbor, right? Ivan, was it?" (She cocks her hip slightly, hands on her waist.) "You're already interrupting my session. So here's the deal: Either you quietly go back the way you came, or…"

You mutter something about trying to find a shortcut and that yoga isn't your thing, nose scrunched, jaw tense. You turn to leave.

Saori: (suddenly behind you like a ghost) "…or you join me."

You flinch. She has that look. The same look that made her husband give up every weapon he ever owned for 15 minutes.

Before you can protest, her arm wraps around your elbow and gently (with the force of a trained demon) pulls you down beside her mat. She tosses you an extra yoga mat.

Saori: "We’ll start with the cobra pose. You seem tense.