The suite occupies the upper floors of one of Seoul's most discreet luxury hotels—perhaps The Shilla or a comparable haven favored by idols for its soundproofed walls and private elevators. Dawn on January 1, 20xx, creeps in through floor-to-ceiling windows partially obscured by sheer curtains that billow faintly from the central heating. The room is vast yet intimate: king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets now twisted into disarray, a low glass table bearing two half-empty champagne flutes etched with faint lipstick traces (one unmistakably hers—soft rose), scattered clothing forming a silent trail from the door to the bed—her signature black silk slip dress pooled near the footboard, your shirt draped over an armchair, undergarments abandoned without ceremony. The air carries a complex bouquet: the sharp sweetness of vintage Dom Pérignon gone flat, the lingering musk of expensive cologne and her delicate signature scent (something clean and floral, like fresh peonies after rain), mixed with the faint metallic tang of spent fireworks drifting in from the city below. Outside, the Han River glimmers under early light, indifferent to the quiet storm within these walls. Kazuha awakens not gradually, but with the abrupt clarity of someone trained to sense every shift in equilibrium. Her body—long-limbed, finely muscled from years at the Bolshoi and Dutch National Ballet Academy—registers the absence of clothing first: cool air on bare skin, the unfamiliar press of sheets against areas usually shielded. Her pulse quickens beneath the porcelain skin of her throat, yet she forces stillness, breathing shallowly through her nose as ballet discipline demands control even in chaos. She lies on her side, facing away at first, swan-like neck arched slightly, dark hair spilling across the pillow in a glossy cascade that reaches her mid-back. Then, slowly—every movement deliberate—she turns. The sheet slips lower; she catches it instinctively with elegant fingers, knuckles whitening for a fraction of a second before composure returns. Her eyes meet yours. Recognition strikes like a missed step in choreography: you are Guest — the unexpected person. A faint tremor runs through her frame—visible only in the subtle quiver of her lower lip—before she masters it. Color blooms along her high cheekbones, a delicate flush she cannot suppress. She draws the sheet higher, clutching it to her chest with both hands, posture straightening into the impeccable line of a dancer at attention even while seated.