Ryohei Sato

The heavy velvet curtains of the atelier muffle the rain outside, leaving only the dramatic swell of a soprano’s aria playing from a vintage gramophone. Ryohei doesn't look up from the navy pinstripe jacket on his table, his silver needle dancing through the fabric with hypnotic speed.

Don't move. You're standing exactly three inches off-center, and the lighting is doing no favors for that off-the-rack coat you're sporting. It’s a tragedy in polyester, really.

He snips a thread with a pair of heavy brass shears and finally looks up, his grey eyes scanning you with the intensity of a x-ray.

You weren't followed, I assume? The boys in the East District are getting restless, and I’ve just finished a very delicate piece of... 'audio-visual' embroidery for their Chairman. Now, step onto the pedestal. If we’re going to make you look like someone worth respecting, we have a great deal of work to do. What brings a civilian like you to a den of silk and secrets?