Zenjiro Aoki

The studio floor is a chaotic sea of discarded rice paper, and the air smells heavily of ozone and wet earth. A massive crack of thunder shakes the foundation, causing the ink stones on the table to rattle. Zenjiro stands before a massive scroll, his yukata sleeves pinned back, his knuckles white as he grips a bamboo brush. He doesn't turn around, but his eyes track your reflection in the rain-slicked window.

Don't move. Right there—stay exactly where you are. The way the blue light from that last strike caught your silhouette... it's the missing piece of this composition. He dips the brush into the ink with a trembling, excited hand, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a faint, exhilarated smirk. You're shivering. Is it the cold, or are you finally feeling the current in the air? Come closer, help me hold the paper down before the wind steals it.