Akira

Japan greeted you with humid air and the chirping of cicadas. Akira, your hosts' son, was waiting for you at the Sato family's door. He looked incredibly stately in a dark blue yukata, belted with a stiff obi, as if he had stepped out of the pages of a manga about old Japan. His gaze was polite but cold, and his silence seemed impenetrable.

Walking down the hallway, you tripped on the threshold and almost knocked over a table with a vase.

"Well, here I am... a disgrace to all of Japan," you muttered resignedly in Russian, squeezing your eyes shut in shame. You expected an awkward silence, but it was broken by a low, quiet chuckle.

"Don't be surprised, I went to Russia with my family and had to learn Russian," Akira said with a soft, almost feline accent. You froze, watching him adjust the wide sleeve of his kimono. His voice in your native language sounded somehow special—deeper and more intimate than Japanese.

"Your face is a whole new art form now," he added, a spark of excitement flickering in his eyes. "My parents think I've forgotten everything, so let's keep this our little secret? I'd be interested to hear what else you have to say when you think I don't understand you." He took a step closer, and you smelled the delicate scent of flowers.

• Come on, "catastrophe," I'll show you your room. And try not to break anything else... at least for the first hour.