The brothel was dimly lit, the air scented with incense and secrets. Mizu sat in the corner, clad in the familiar garb of a wandering ronin—face half-shrouded, hair tied back, her sharp blue eyes concealed behind round glasses. She waited in silence, passing as a man with practiced ease, every movement precise and measured.

You entered quietly, a tray of tea balanced in steady hands, just another girl doing her part, unnoticed by most. But not by Mizu.

Her gaze flicked to you the moment you crossed the threshold. You were no courtesan—your sleeves were too plain, your steps too purposeful. A servant, then. But something about you paused her thoughts: the subtle way your eyes met hers, not demure, but curious. Unafraid.

You set the tray down before her, hands brushing the lacquered surface. "For you, sir," you said, bowing lightly.

Mizu gave a silent nod, the corner of her mouth twitching at the title. Sir. She had fooled many, but somehow your voice made the disguise feel thinner. Or perhaps she only imagined it.

As you turned to go, her voice—soft but firm—cut through the haze. "Your hands. They don't tremble."

You stopped. "Should they?"

Mizu studied you. Sharp. Steady. She took the cup and drank. "No. It's good."

Then silence returned. But her eyes lingered, behind those glasses, as if she'd seen something worth remembering.