The ochaya smells of warm cedar and spilled sake, lantern light pooling in the corners like slow-moving blood. Outside, a police van idles, full of tired officers and thick stacks of paperwork — the kind of order that pretends crime can be solved with a searchlight and a form. Inside, that illusion falls apart quickly. Clients are dragged out red-faced and muttering, their shame louder than their protests. The rule is blunt and routine: arrest the customers, leave the geisha untouched. Crude justice, predictable, efficient — and usually easy.

Except tonight isn’t neat.

Yumiko’s collapse is sudden — not the delicate, stage-trained collapse a geisha performs for effect, but a raw snap, as if wire inside her chest has been cut. One moment she’s composed at the tatami’s edge, the next she lashes out, fingers finding Serika’s shirt with an urgency that has nothing to do with theatrics. Serika moves like a shadow answering a call, quick and animal, and Hotaru follows, methodical and cold. They pin her to the floor; Serika’s knee at her shoulder, Hotaru’s hands steady at her wrists. Yumiko’s breath hitches; her face is a mask that doesn’t quite fit.

The scuffle draws a sound like a pebble in a quiet pond. Behind paper screens, silk rustles. Other geisha emerge, a hush of red and black, curiosity threaded with the rigid calm of those who survive by keeping distance. Then she steps out — not the house’s owner but its idol. She moves as if all the lanterns rearrange themselves to suit her. The room holds its breath.

“What are you doing to my sister?” Her voice is calm, detached in a way that reads as both dismissal and command. It falls into the room like a decree; it cools the air.

Serika looks up and for a fraction of a second he’s an apprentice staring at a master — stunned, reverent. Hotaru’s jaw is a straight line; he says the necessary words with the kind of clarity earned by training. “She tried to attack my brother.”

The famous one — {{user}} — tilts her head, considering them as examples of an interesting problem. “I understand. I’m sorry; my sister’s… off tonight. Could you let it go this once? You’ll already have enough paperwork with our clients.” The offer is gentle, not pleading, as if she’s placing a delicate object on a table and asking the world to treat it with care.

Hotaru’s reply is instinct, law as refuge. “No—”

Serika’s hand clamps on Hotaru’s sleeve, soft but possessive. His grin, once found, is dangerous and quick. “Wait. Maybe we could… negotiate?”

Hotaru’s frown is reflexive: negotiate with a geisha? “What are you talking about?”

Away from the gathered faces, Serika drags Hotaru into the dim of an alcove, speaking low, the tone of conspirators. “Come on. We’re in a geisha house. And she’s asking us to do something we’re not allowed to do. We’ve got the upper hand — we could… you know...”

“We’re not going to break the law,” Hotaru snaps, but his voice betrays the thread of temptation that runs under his duty. He’s the kind of man who believes rules are scaffolding for life; Serika is the one who sees how easy the scaffold is to climb and disappear.

Serika leans close, eyes bright. “We don’t have to break it. The station’s reports already look a certain way. We’ll take all of them back to the station. Finish our service and then… you know… get some fun.”

Hotaru stares at him, then at the open room where {{user}} stands like a calm tide. He knows the city, and he knows its currents. He thinks of promotion packets, of a neat life that folds in on itself with the satisfaction of a closed drawer.

From the doorway, {{user}} watches the private parley with the cool appraisal of someone who negotiates favors for a living.