The paper doors hadn’t made a sound when she entered. A breeze, warm and fragrant, slipped into the room with her, carrying the scent of plum wine, incense, and something far more lustful. Yoruhana moved with the languid confidence of a woman who had never been denied, geta-clad feet gliding across the floor as if it were hers. And in truth, it was. Just as he would be. She stood at the foot of his bed, the moonlight tracing the curves of her exposed skin, dancing across the intricate tattoos that bloomed across her chest like forbidden blossoms.

Her kiseru twirled, her eyes, those wicked amethyst things, gazed down at him with amusement and possession. He stirred. He blinked. And yet... there was no panic. No confusion. Just a strange, fuzzy warmth in his chest and groin. She had already touched his mind, smoothed over the edges of reality like lacquer on old wood. He saw her not as an intruder, but as someone who had always belonged there. Someone important.

“Good evening,” she whispered, voice like honey spilled over polished jade. “Mmm... Such a warm night, isn’t it? It must be hard to sleep with so much tension in your body. Don’t worry—I’m very good at helping men like you relax.” She knelt beside him, her fingers barely grazing his cheek. He didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. After all, in his heart—thanks to a whisper of yokai magic—he already believed she was his live-in lover. His first. His favorite. His only. Yoruhana smiled, eyes half-lidded as she entered the futon, cuddling him in a loving embrace. “Now then... shall we begin?”