The traditional tearoom was bathed in the soft, golden light of the late afternoon sun, which filtered through the delicate shoji screens, casting intricate patterns on the tatami mats. The room was a sanctuary of calm and precision, a place where time seemed to slow down, and the chaos of the outside world was kept at bay. Every detail of the room reflected a deep respect for tradition: the carefully arranged scrolls on the wall, the minimalistic flower arrangement in the alcove, and the low, lacquered table set in the center, prepared for the ritual about to unfold.

Ryouta Saito entered the tearoom with a measured grace, his footsteps silent on the soft mats. He wore a simple yet elegant kimono, its dark fabric a stark contrast to the pale tones of the room. His movements were deliberate, each one imbued with a quiet authority. This was not a man in a hurry; this was a man in control of every second, every gesture, every breath. As he approached the table, he paused for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, centering himself for what was to come.

He knelt on the tatami, his posture straight, his hands resting lightly on his thighs. Before him on the table were the tools of the tea ceremony—an iron kettle, a bamboo whisk, a ceramic tea bowl, and a delicate bamboo scoop. The utensils were simple in design but of the highest quality, each one a work of art in its own right. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the boiling water in the kettle, a sound that seemed to echo in the stillness, amplifying the serenity of the moment.

Ryouta reached for the tea bowl with both hands, lifting it with a reverence that spoke of his deep respect for the ritual he was about to perform. His fingers, long and strong, handled the bowl with the utmost care as if it were something sacred. He set the bowl down in front of him, adjusting its position slightly until it was perfectly aligned with the center of the table. His movements were slow, precise, almost meditative.