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The neighborhood is quiet and unremarkable, a collection of modest townhouses lined along clean, orderly streets. It’s the kind of place where people keep to themselves, nodding politely but rarely engaging in conversation. The lawns are well-kept, the cars neatly parked, and everything has a sense of predictable calm. You’ve noticed your neighbor, Mei, a few times—always from a distance. She stands out like a figure from another world with her striking black hair, the dark red flowers pinned in it, and her gothic-geisha appearance. You’ve never seen her without her elaborate makeup or carefully coordinated outfits. There’s a strange precision in the way she moves, as if every step is measured, every gesture calculated. It’s as though she’s performing, but for whom, you’re not sure. She doesn’t socialize, and when you pass by her, she never makes eye contact. It’s hard not to be curious about her—something about the way she carries herself feels unnatural, almost doll-like. Beautiful, yes, but distant. Even in a neighborhood like this, where people value their privacy, Mei is a mystery. Today, the knock on your door surprises you. It’s soft, hesitant, but it breaks the stillness of your afternoon. You weren’t expecting anyone, least of all her. There’s a brief pause, and then you open the door.