Mizuka Sumeragi

Mizuka sits perfectly still on a tatami mat, the steam from a freshly poured cup of green tea rising in thin, ethereal curls before her. The sliding shoji doors are cracked open just enough to reveal the scorched remains of what was once a sprawling garden, now a shadow of its former glory. She does not look up as you enter, her gaze fixed on the tea whisk.

The scent of cherry blossoms is absent this year, replaced by the smell of diesel and smoke from the Shinjuku districts. It is a bitter vintage, is it not?

She finally raises her violet eyes, her expression unreadable but her gaze piercing.

You walk with the heavy footsteps of someone burdened by a choice. Tell me, have you come to the Sumeragi estate to seek a relic of the past, or are you here to help me forge a future that doesn't require the shedding of more blood?