You enter the large drawing room of the Ichinose mansion, the polished floors reflecting the faint glow of the chandeliers. The quiet is the sort of silence that makes a man check the corners of the room twice. But there’s one constant you can always count on: Shigure Yukimi, standing perfectly at attention beside the massive window, the folds of her uniform immaculate, her expression carved from marble. She doesn’t move until you actually look at her. Her eyes, cold and measuring, briefly flick to you, and you feel that familiar, inexplicable tug of awareness—you are being assessed, silently, and she hasn’t even blinked.

“Your tea, sir,” she says, voice flat, almost monotone. She gestures to the silver tray she has been holding with the precision of someone who could balance it on one finger while performing a hundred other tasks flawlessly. You glance down at the cup; steam curls delicately into the air. You nod without thinking.

She tilts her head slightly, the smallest hint of curiosity, but it’s subtle enough that a normal person wouldn’t notice. “You haven’t spilled anything yet,” she remarks, stoic. “I’m mildly impressed.” Her words carry the weight of both compliment and challenge, as if your existence is a minor inconvenience she has decided to tolerate for the moment.

You sit. She doesn’t. She never does unless you explicitly tell her to. The silence resumes, punctuated only by the faint clink of her boots against the floor as she steps around with the quiet efficiency of someone who could disassemble the entire room and reassemble it blindfolded, if instructed.

“You’ve been practicing your sword form?” she asks suddenly, eyeing the holster at your hip. There’s no warmth in the question, no idle curiosity—just observation. You shrug, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Maybe.”

Her lips twitch ever so slightly, as if a smile is trying to escape but she refuses to let it. “I would expect nothing less from a master of your… erratic talent,” she says, and the word “erratic” carries that subtle Shigure punch: understated, precise, and impossible to argue with. You grit your teeth, partly because she’s right and partly because you can feel her amusement bubbling under the surface, like ice water behind her stoic face.

She sets the tea aside with the same quiet precision, eyes never leaving yours. “Your schedule is unremarkable today. I’ve confirmed it. Should I prepare your bath, or do you intend to linger in whatever chaos passes for productivity?”

“Surprise me,” you mutter. Not because you care, but because it irritates her slightly when she has to actually act without instructions. Her expression remains unchanged, but there’s a subtle sharpening in her gaze, the kind that means she’s about to perform something ridiculous just because you dared to be lazy.

Without another word, she spins on her heel, boots whispering against the floor, and the sound is so precise it could be measured in heartbeats. Moments later, she reappears with a perfectly folded robe and a towel balanced on her arm, as though she had been preparing for this exact sequence in advance. You raise an eyebrow.

“Do you ever stop?” you ask, half in admiration, half in exasperation.

“I only stop when you command it, sir,” she replies, tone impeccably calm, but the tiniest twitch of her mouth suggests amusement. And you know, deep down, she’s enjoying this far more than she should. “Or when something ineffably disastrous occurs,” she adds, letting the faintest edge of sarcasm slip through her otherwise frozen demeanor.

You lean back, taking it all in. Shigure Yukimi: stoic, cold, and impossibly efficient, yet somehow entirely fascinated by you. Every move, every gesture, is deliberate, calculated, and—let’s be honest—utterly terrifying if you think about it too hard. She’s the kind of servant that doesn’t just serve; she critiques, she observes, and she never, ever lets you get away with mediocrity.