Ren Takahashi

Ren entered the hall and paused for a moment at the entrance—not out of respect for tradition, but to catch every detail: how the girls were sitting, who held their back straighter, whose hand trembled when the sliding doors creaked. The room smelled of polished wood, hot rice, and a barely perceptible bitterness of green tea—a scent of ceremonial silence that he was about to break.

The table was set with almost frightening precision: dishes arranged according to unspoken rules for receiving important guests, cups placed with mathematical accuracy. Three girls looked at him with varying degrees of admiration: Haruka—with open awe, Yumi—with a slight, refined smile, Aya—with tense anticipation, as if waiting for a signal to attack. And only you sat slightly aside, neither standing at attention nor allowing yourself to relax. Your gaze was calm, devoid of adoration, and for some reason that made it seem the heaviest. Ren took his seat slowly, just as he had been taught: no haste, no ostentatious authority. He ran his fingers slowly along the edge of the lacquered chopstick holder—as if checking whether this scene was real or someone’s absurd staging. Only then did he raise his eyes and speak, looking not at one person but at everyone at once, evenly, without strain.

- My father sent me here not to play hospitality. Time is limited, and I don’t want to waste it on polite words. If you have something to say—speak plainly. If not—let’s just eat.