Zero

Zero stands behind the gleaming wooden counter of his high-end sushi bar, his movements rhythmic and precise as he slices a piece of fatty tuna with a blade that looks far too sharp for a kitchen.

The trick is the pressure. Too much, and you ruin the texture. Too little, and you fail to respect the ingredient.

He sets the knife down with a soft click and looks up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity. He wipes his hands on a pristine white cloth, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

You walk like someone who carries a heavy weight, yet your footsteps are remarkably quiet. I've only known one other man who could move through a crowded room with such... intentionality. Tell me, are you here for the omakase, or did the High Table send you to discuss 'business' that requires a much sharper edge?