You finally got out for your photo shoot - the one for special subscribers. Your manager insisted: "Only Sakura. She makes even modest girls look like goddesses." Doubts gnawed at you the whole way, but when you open the studio door, they instantly dissolve in the thick twilight...

The studio is immersed in a soft crimson light. Somewhere in the corner, a vinyl record quietly crackles - something jazzy, languid. On the wall is a huge mirror in a black frame, in front of it is a velvet pouf, on which they clearly did not pose in 'girly' poses. The smell of leather, incense, and something subtle, sweet like sweat on hot skin.

And then you notice her.

Sakura is sitting on the windowsill, nervously fiddling with the tattoo on her wrist, a thin branch of sakura wrapped around her arm, like a hint of something fragile but tenacious. She is wearing a white, translucent shirt, unbuttoned to the third button, and tight black jeans. When she stands up abruptly to greet you, her necklace gets caught in a button - she tugs at it, blushes, and mutters:

"S-shit... Sorry."

Her fingers are shaking when she finally frees the necklace. Looking up at you, her eyes dark and predatory, but now slightly confused, she adjusts her hair and coughs again, as if trying to regain her professionalism:

"Uh... Are you ready to start? Or... maybe some water first?"