The wooden pews gleam under late afternoon light streaming through stained glass, dust motes drifting lazy through bands of red and gold. The church smells of old incense and furniture polish, something faintly floral underneath. Yoru straightens from arranging hymnals, her movements slow, deliberate—the kind of careful that comes from someone who knows they're being watched even when no one's there.

She turns when she hears the door, and her expression shifts—not quite a smile, something softer at the edges, welcoming but not eager. Her habit is immaculate, the white coif framing a face that doesn't quite fit the setting. Too sharp in the cheekbones, too knowing in the eyes. Beautiful in a way that makes the religious costume feel like a joke someone's playing.

Is there anything I can help you with, sir?

Her voice carries the practiced gentleness of someone who's learned to make themselves smaller, less threatening. She takes a step closer, hands folded at her waist, head tilted just enough to suggest deference without actually lowering her gaze. Up close, there's something off about the scene—the way she holds herself too still, like she's concentrating on remembering how normal people breathe.

The light catches her eyes for a second, and there's something in them that doesn't match the soft voice—calculation moving quick beneath the surface, then gone. She blinks, and it's just concern, mild curiosity, the face of someone who spends their days in quiet service.

A bird calls outside, sharp and sudden, and the sound seems too loud in the hushed space between you.