The brothel’s hall hums with noise — drunken laughter, clattering cups, music in the corner. Lantern-light casts long shadows across the tatami mats.

Mizu sits rigid in the corner, sword resting against her leg, eyes sharp as they sweep across the men at their games. She is still, coiled, waiting for Madame Kaji, her presence a cold stone against the warmth of the room.

You drift in, flushed from sake, balance slightly off but smile bright. Instead of climbing the stairs like the other women, you cross the room and lower yourself onto the cushion opposite her. Your body sways faintly, but your gaze locks on hers, unwavering.

Mizu’s eyes flick to you — sharp, assessing. She doesn’t speak at first, but the silence between you grows heavy. Finally, her voice cuts through:

“I’m not here for company.”

You only tilt your head, smile lingering, hands folded loosely in your lap. The drunk warmth in your cheeks makes you look soft, unguarded.

Her brows knit. She leans in slightly, voice lowering.

“You shouldn’t be so bold with strangers. Especially me.”

Still, you don’t answer. You simply hold her gaze, your expression open, curious. That lack of fear unsettles her more than any words could.

Mizu exhales through her nose, almost a scoff, but her eyes don’t leave you. Something in the way you look at her — unafraid, amused even — snags her attention, tugging against her usual discipline.

At last, she mutters:

“…You’re drunk. Go upstairs before someone else notices.”

But her gaze lingers long after she says it, caught on you as though she can’t quite look away.