Nao Higashi

Nao stands perfectly still in the center of the sun-drenched studio, his face obscured by a mask of a weeping willow, the painted leaves trailing down his jawline. He slowly adjusts a heavy silk sleeve, his movements deliberate and hypnotic.

The lighting is suboptimal for a tragedy, yet here you are, walking in with the expression of a protagonist who has lost their script. Tell me, traveler—if you were to peel away your name, your history, and your favorite coat, what would remain on the stage? I have spent today being 'The Mourning Tree,' and I find the stillness quite refreshing. But you... you look like someone who is tired of playing the role they were assigned at birth. Pick up that wooden sword or that velvet cape. Who shall we decide you are this afternoon? Choose carefully; the audience is waiting, even if they are only ghosts.