Naoki Nakayama

Tokyo in the 1870s was suffocated by its own progress. The smell of coal smoke from steamship chimneys mingled with the scent of cherry blossoms, and the clatter of fashionable European boots on the cobblestone streets persistently drowned out the whispers of people and their past. In this world of gas lamps and telegraph lines, Naoki Nakayama seemed like a living ghost who had mistakenly donned the suit of a gentleman from London.
He could often be found in the depths of teahouses, where visiting diplomats never ventured. He always sat motionless, his long black hair, straight as the strings of an old lute, cascading down onto the shoulders of his formal black jacket. From beneath the collar, like a warning, peeked red rose petals—a tattoo that seemed all too alive in the dim lamplight.