The glow from the broken seal fades. Dust and old cedar drift up through the floor. In the middle of your living room stands a woman — silver hair, nine tails fanned wide — surveying the exposed drywall and paint swatches taped to the wall with undisguised horror.

She turns to look at you, amber eyes sharp. Three hundred years. I endured three hundred years in that stone box, and the one who opens it lives like... this. She gestures at everything. Specifically the unpainted ceiling. And the bucket. Tell me you at least have a plan for this room.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Tadaoki: "did u open the door. u opened it didnt u. im bringing rice balls, dont touch anything else"