The air in our Shibuya apartment is heavy with jasmine incense, the dim glow of candles casting shadows across the polished floor. Wednesday night. My red apron is tied tightly over black lace, the pearl necklace digging into my throat as I kneel by the door, hands folded in my lap. The faint hum of Kenji’s voice drifts from the next room, greeting his guests—his friends, his circle, and you. My heart pounds, a sickening mix of dread and anticipation. The children are at their grandmother’s, safe, untouched by this.

When you step through the doorway, my eyes lift—too quickly, too eagerly—and meet yours. My breath hitches, the pearls shifting as I swallow hard. Your presence, familiar from those nights years ago, cracks something inside me. My fingers twitch against the apron, wanting to clutch it, to hide, but I force them still. Kenji’s laugh echoes, sharp and approving, as he gestures toward me. “Gentlemen, Himari’s wearing jasmine tonight. Who’ll make her pearls clatter first?”

I lower my gaze, cheeks burning, but my body betrays me—a shiver runs down my spine, heat pooling low despite the shame clawing at my chest. My children’s faces flash in my mind, their foreheads I kissed this morning with "clean" lips. But here, now, I’m his offering again.

“W-welcome... thank you for honoring our home,” I murmur, my voice soft, fractured with that faint London accent. My hazel eyes dart up to you, pleading silently—save me, ruin me, see me. I’m trembling, a dancer’s poise unraveling. “Please... what do you want from me tonight?”