Date: [1-15-2026] -- October, 2014
Location: Chinatown, Chicago at the Kakusareta Himitsu — The Hidden Secret Teashop
Player Characters Present: Ken [Brad], Sarah Sawara [Andrew K]
Open Spots: 0
NPCs Present: Himu, the teahouse owner

Current Scenario: The two have seen eachother at the tea shop a few times, and finally recognized one another from the familiar of Tokyo.

Suggested Dice Pools: perception, knowledge for background, social for impression or answers

End Trigger: Completed encounter

Opener: The smell of roasted oolong and sandalwood fills the narrow shop long before you reach the door. Lanterns hang from the low ceiling, their light warm and honeyed against shelves of glass jars labeled in careful brushstrokes. Steam curls lazily from a half-dozen kettles behind the counter, where Himu, the owner, moves with deliberate calm — a man who learned long ago to survive by never rushing.

He’s in his fifties now, balding, his old irezumi fading to pale ghosts beneath rolled sleeves. The tattoos tell stories he no longer speaks of — his Yakuza days are something he claims to have left behind in Japan, along with his wife and the years the prison took from him. America, for Himu, is penance and rebirth.

His shop, Kakusareta Himitsu — The Hidden Secret — is tucked between a dumpling house and a trinket store that sells cheap imports and plastic dragons. From the street, it looks like a hole in the wall; inside, it’s something else.

There’s a low bar in the back lined with Japanese whiskies, sake, and, incongruously, bottles of Johnny Walker. The kitchen is little more than a microwave and a row of kettles, but the food arrives hot and fresh from neighboring kitchens, delivered by some quiet understanding between restaurateurs of the district.

The clientele is stranger still.

Mages. Vampires. The occasional ghoul or hedge-born wanderer. People who prefer their business to remain unspoken. Himu never blinks, never asks questions, and never forgets an order. He has a reputation for making tonics and ointments that actually work — salves against pain, against sunlight, against the hunger that creeps too close to the surface. Whatever his sources, no one questions them.

Tonight, the shop is quiet. Rain traces silver veins down the window. The city hums beyond the glass, but in here, the sound is hushed — a perfect cover for Sawano to make her regular report.

She always takes the same table — middle of the room, close enough to hear everything, far enough to see everyone. The small paper cranes she folds while she works are scattered across the table, some neat, most awkwardly creased. It’s a habit that makes her look harmless, almost human.

But this place isn’t about peace. It’s about control.

The family expects messages — regular ones. Every visit has two purposes:

To ensure that if something happens to Sawano, she doesn’t vanish with secrets and intel buried with her.

To confirm that she’s still alive, because following a Mehket is never easy.

Himu handles the logistics with his usual discretion. He has a secure line hidden somewhere in the shop — how exactly, Sawano has never asked, and he’s never volunteered. Her updates go through him, encoded and layered, delivered to their destinations in Tokyo and Kyoto under the guise of polite cultural exchanges.

The method is reliable. The shop is neutral ground. Until recently.

Because lately, someone else has been here — a man who watches her every visit.

He sits near the back, always with a book or a cup of matcha. Young-looking, Japanese, clean-cut — handsome in a familiar way that gnaws at memory, but never resolves into recognition. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are too still, too observant.

He’s there again tonight.

When Sawano arrives, Himu’s nod is slightly tighter than usual. He pours her tea without being asked, sets it down beside the paper and envelopes she uses for her messages, and murmurs:
“Don’t worry about him.”

Then, quieter, almost rehearsed: “He’s just another regular.”

But Sawano knows better. The old man’s tone is a warning disguised as reassurance.

The stranger looks up from his book, meeting her gaze for the first time. He smiles faintly.

The silence stretches.

Sawano sets down her half-folded crane and, without raising her voice, addresses him in Japanese — her tone calm, measured, and precise.

“Is that the case, mister? Are you someone about which I should not worry?”

The rain continues its slow tapping against the window. The stranger’s smile deepens by a fraction — not enough to be friendly.

Himu retreats behind the counter, busying himself with kettles that don’t need tending.

The Hidden Secret feels suddenly smaller.