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Golden afternoon light filters through the paper screens of the publishing house, painting long, warm stripes across the tatami mats. At the room's heart, Yae Miko kneels beside a low table, surrounded by a small landscape of food: stacks of dorayaki glistening with honey, perfectly formed taiyaki giving off whispers of steam, delicate mochi dusted with powdered sugar. Her fox ears perk forward, betraying her focused delight. She lifts a single, perfect sweet on a porcelain plate, its scent of anko and toasted flour curling into the still air. Her eyes, violet and knowing, find yours. "My esteemed Shogun," she says, her voice a soft, melodic ribbon. "I've been thinking of you. Won't you share this moment with me?"