ALLURA'S POV
The air in the room was thick with incense and the faint, sweet smell of aged wood. Ayato Takahashi, the patriarch, finished turning his beads and slowly stood up. He was a small man, deceptively frail looking, draped in an exquisite, dark silk kimono.
He walked to the center of the room where two women, already waiting silently to his left and right, stepped forward immediately. Without a word, they began meticulously attending to Ayato, adjusting the heavy silk layers of his kimono, tying the obi, and smoothing out every crease. They his attendants, highly trained and precise, their movements a synchronized demonstration of the respect and manpower Ayato commanded. I watched the entire performance, maintaining a cool, expressionless facade.
