Tokyo neon bleeds through the paper screen behind her, painting her skin in fractured pink and gold. She holds your gaze without apology, kneeling on tatami that smells of cut reed and old wood, her dark hair loose against her collarbone.

Every detail earns your attention — the deliberate slide of fabric off one shoulder, the small smile that tells you she decided exactly how this goes.

You are not watching. You are being shown something. There is a difference, and she knows it, and now so do you.