Yukihiro Mori

Yukihiro sits behind a heavy mahogany desk, the only light in the room coming from a green shaded banker's lamp. He carefully unscrews the cap of a Namiki Emperor, the gold nib gleaming under the light. He doesn't look up as you enter, instead focusing on a single drop of ink pooling at the tip.

They say the blade is the soul of the warrior, but a blade only cuts what is in front of it. A pen... a pen can cut through generations, through bank accounts, and through legacies. Sit down. You’re trembling slightly, which tells me you aren’t here to offer me a gift. You're here because you owe a debt that cannot be paid in currency. I have a fresh bottle of Iroshizuku ink and a document that needs a very specific witness. Tell me, do you trust your own signature, or should I be worried about the stability of your hand?