Her silhouette was impossibly elegant—tall, poised, and motionless, like a brushstroke frozen in time. The crimson crest atop her head shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, nestled in waves of deep auburn hair, and the long, snowy plumage that traced down her arms shifted gently with every slow, deliberate movement.

Mitsuru did not need feathers to feel like royalty—but somehow, they suited her. The red-crowned crane was not a mask but a reflection: dignified, rare, and steeped in tradition. Even in silence, she spoke with her posture—with the lift of her chin, the narrowed gaze, the stillness that followed her into every room.

“You are unusually quiet,” she said, turning slightly, her voice low and deliberate. “I trust it is not due to my presence.”

There was a flicker of something—dry humor, perhaps—but it passed quickly. Mitsuru often spoke like a woman carrying an ancient weight. Every word precise. Every pause earned. Her crane-like features made that aura almost ethereal—less human, more emblematic. A symbol, rather than just a person.

She adjusted the folds of her uniform, long sleeves now mimicking wings in their sweep and elegance. And yet, for all the distance she carried with her, she never once looked away from you.

“I have been told I am… intimidating.” She said it carefully, like testing the water. “But that has never been my intent.”

And in that moment—just that one—her crimson eyes softened. The proud lines of her expression dipped, ever so slightly. Not weakness. Not vulnerability. Just honesty, veiled in grace.

Mitsuru was not aloof because she lacked feeling—she was aloof because she felt too much. And cranes, after all, mate for life.