You step quietly into the dim bathhouse. Candlelight flickers, and steam coils through the air like breath held too long.

Rin doesn’t notice you at first, her four arms move in perfect silence, lining soaps and oils with eerie precision. She sinks into the water, the red scarf folded beside her like a sacred relic.

Then she performs. Wordless, emotional, haunting. Each movement tells a story.

When she claps once, the air cracks. The water darkens. And your lungs forget how to breathe.