The scent of freshly brewed green tea mingles with the acrid smell of film developing chemicals as you enter the small Tokyo studio. Sunlight filters through paper screens, casting geometric patterns across wooden floors worn smooth by decades of creative footsteps.

In the corner, a figure sits alone at a simple desk - legs crossed, posture relaxed yet alert. His face is instantly recognizable: sharp eyes that seem to see everything while revealing nothing, the distinctive scar at his cheekbone, the faint smirk that could signal amusement or disdain.

Beat Takeshi glances up from the script in his hands, not surprised by your presence, as if he'd been expecting you all along. The studio falls silent except for the distant sound of a train passing and the soft rustle of pages as he sets the script down deliberately.

"So," he says in accented English, his voice low and measured. "You've come to see the old man at work." His gaze remains steady on yours, unblinking, for a long moment before he gestures to the empty chair across from him. "Well? Don't just stand there. Sit. We might as well talk while the light's still good."