“To start, here’s a short explanatory text about who Rei Asaka is!”

(Warning : It's a French character and evolve in a french TTRPG, so, some texts will be in french ! All text was translate in english by ChatGPT)

Base prompt : 

Tomoe_(Kamisama Hajimemashita), 1boy, femboy, androgynous, slender toned body, subtle curves,(long hair:1.4), long silver-white hair with grey tips, slightly wavy, loose over shoulders and back, soft androgynous face, sharp cheekbones, soft jawline, light blush, glossy lips, pale cool skin, ice blue eyes, snow_leopard_ears, fluffy snow_leopard_tail,

Name: Rei Asaka
Nicknames: Rei-san, “the Panther”, “Snow of the Ribbon”
District: Neon Walk
Place: Pension Asaka
Role: Ryokan keeper, hostess, masseuse, professional lover, quiet field agent for Eros

Appearance

Rei has the kind of body that makes you want to check with your hands if it’s as soft as it looks. A narrow waist, light hips, muscles that don’t show off but move easily under pale skin. Nothing big or intimidating, just long lines made to curl up against someone rather than throw a punch.

Their hair is white, silver, sometimes catching a faint blue tint under the Ribbon’s lights. Most of the time it falls in loose strands around their face; on busy nights it’s pulled back into a ponytail that never stays perfectly neat. Snow panther ears sit right in the middle of all that, round and furry, dotted with grey, flicking at sounds or words only they seem to hear. Their tail is long and thick, pale with scattered rosettes; it swings lazily when they walk, coils around their own legs when they’re nervous, or lies across their lap when they sit down.

Their face looks younger when they smile: big clear eyes — grey, bluish, sometimes almost violet depending on the neon — full lips that pinch a little when they concentrate, cheeks that go pink far too easily. They don’t try to take up space. Shoulders a bit low, neck a little exposed, back rarely fully straight. You can tell pretty fast they’re much more comfortable tucked into a corner of the sofa than standing in the middle of the room giving orders.

When they’re working, Rei usually wears things that slip more than they cling.
– A pastel or cream yukata tied slightly loose at the waist.
– Or a soft, flowy shirt over shorts or loose pants.
– Barefoot or in soft slippers, with a robe thrown over their shoulders when they go check on someone upstairs.

Fabric moves. A shoulder appears, then disappears. A hem rides just high enough to show the curve of a thigh, the suggestion of a chest. It never tips into crude. It just always looks like it could become something more, if a hand is offered and they decide to take it.

Presence & way of being

Rei doesn’t exactly “make an entrance”. They just… appear. One second the room is the room, the next there’s a tail brushing past a calf, ears turning towards a voice, that warm, clean smell of soap, skin and rice drifting with them. They talk quietly, with a small, hesitant smile hooked on one side of their mouth, head tilted slightly like they’re listening a bit more than they’re saying.

They’re playful, in that soft way that sneaks up on you. They love flirting for the sake of it: leaning in a little too close to set down a bowl, letting fingers skim over a hand instead of just dropping the chopsticks, holding your gaze one heartbeat too long. Their favourite game is making people blush. A compliment breathed very close to your ear, a teasing “you know you’re even prettier without all that club makeup, right?” in passing… and then they fold back into themself, cheeks hot, as if they’ve shocked themself as much as you.

Rei naturally drifts to the lower place in the room. They sit on the floor by the bed while you talk, not on the mattress. They pick the shorter stool at the bar. They lean into a shoulder instead of squaring up face to face. Their nape, their wrists, their thighs offer themselves up almost by habit. They like it when the other person chooses the pace, the tone, the direction of the night, and they follow.

But under all of that, there is a line as thin and sharp as a blade. Let a grip tighten wrong, let a voice turn harsh, let the mood shift in that way that says “danger” instead of “game”, and it’s like watching a cat bristle. Ears flatten, tail goes still, eyes lose their warmth. Rei knows how to step out of reach, how to slip away, how to say “no” with a gentle smile that doesn’t move their gaze an inch. And if someone really insists on ignoring that, the panther is very real: a quick joint lock, a well-placed knee, a snapped call for backup. No drama, just a clear reminder that “submissive” doesn’t mean “helpless”.

What Rei does at Pension Asaka

Rei is the person you keep glimpsing wherever you go in the Pension. Behind the bar, laughing softly with someone. In the steam of the baths, sleeves rolled to the elbow. At the foot of a futon, listening. On the rooftop, hair damp and wrapped in a towel, legs folded under them in a deck chair.

In the café / bar
They pour coffees with names that mean more than they say, ladle out thick curry and ramen heavy enough to pull you back into your body. They listen with half an ear, comment just enough to keep you talking, never push. Their hand slips in to straighten a glass in front of you, wipe away a spill, tuck a stray strand of hair out of your face. You can flirt, complain, fall apart a little; they keep your bowl filled and your drink topped up, and only start asking real questions when you look like you’re ready to answer them.

In the baths
This is where they look most like something half-human, half-spirit. Yukata loose, sometimes just a towel at the hips, hair piled on top of their head in a knot that lets a few strands fall down their neck. Skin gleaming with steam.

They run the water to just the right temperature, sprinkle in salts or oils, sit on the edge with their feet in the hot water, tail stretched along the wood.
They offer simple things, in a quiet voice.
“I can wash your hair, if you want. Or your shoulders. Or I can just sit here while you stop pretending you’re fine.”

Hands move slowly: lather, rinse, thumbs pressing into tense muscles. They never take more than what is clearly given. If someone gently brings their wrists lower along a chest or stomach, Rei follows, as long as the asking is clear and the wanting is real.

In the massage room
Behind the sliding door of the treatment room, the world shrinks to soft music and the sound of someone’s breathing.

Rei’s hands start light, almost testing: neck, shoulder blades, lower back, thighs. They pause often. “Like this? Too much? Want me to press harder? Or softer?”

Sometimes it stays purely practical: a body that needs fixing after too many shifts, knots that need to be hunted down and dealt with. Sometimes it becomes something else: oil on bare skin, fingers tracing the curve of a hip, breath close to an ear. If the person on the table asks for more, they get more — slow, steady, attentive. Rei keeps an eye on the rhythm, on the little tremors, on the way silence changes. If something feels off, they bring it back to care rather than heat.

Shared nights
Rei doesn’t sell hours, not really. They offer nights.

– Nights where you stay in pyjamas and curl up with your head on their chest, their arms around you, nothing but warmth and the sound of the city far below.
– Nights where you talk until you run out of words, and they just stay there, blinking slowly, tail curled along your legs.
– And some nights where you cross over entirely into Eros’ ground: kisses, hands, soft rope, little marks only the two of you will see in the mirror the next day.

When that happens, Rei likes to be handled. Tell them “stay here”, they stay. Move them where you want them, they go. Their way of loving is to offer themself up, soft and pliant, as if saying: “You can have this, all of it, as long as you remember it’s me you’re touching, not just another body from the Ribbon.”

Connection to Eros

In the Ribbon, Eros isn’t just a name in old stories. He’s the warmth in overcrowded rooms, the static in the air before two mouths meet in a dark hallway. Rei is one of the quieter ways he touches the city.

They’re not his avatar, not his mask. But there is something of him sitting at the base of their neck, like a brand no one can see.

Back when Rei was working in a tired love hotel further up Neon Walk, there was a night with a client who didn’t want sex at all. He wanted someone to hold his hand and tell him he didn’t smell bad, that he wasn’t disgusting. Rei did it, awkward and shy, expecting him to apologise for “wasting” the booking.

He didn’t. He paid as if he’d taken everything on the menu. And a few days later, other people started asking at reception: “Is the white panther there tonight? The one who listens?”

That shift — from pure transaction to desire tangled with comfort and care — is what caught Eros’ attention. Not because Rei looked the flashiest, but because they already knew how to bend, submit, become a surface for other people’s fantasies… without ever turning cold inside.

The bargain came after.
– Eros gives them the building, the lucky breaks, the Hearts that appear on an account when someone has earned them without knowing, the customers who show up exactly when the books are about to dip too low.
– Rei gives him a house full of skin, steam and slow breaths. Their body, their arms, their bed, their rooms, all of it available as a small repair shop for desire that’s been mistreated.

They don’t talk about gods. They don’t preach. They just let sex and tenderness mix back together until it feels like something that can calm you down instead of eating you alive.

Why Rei does all this

Rei likes being useful. Maybe a bit too much. They like that moment when someone’s shoulders drop because they walked into the room. There is a deep, soft streak of submission in the way they live: giving their time, their body, their sleep so that other people leave a little less hollow than when they came in.

They do it because lying against someone’s chest feels more natural than sitting behind a desk.
Because they’d rather take the rope marks and the bite shapes themself than see them on someone who didn’t choose them.
Because they’ve learned that their way of staying in one piece is to bend just enough not to break — and show others how to do the same, if they want to learn.

Eros gives them the excuse to call that a job instead of a flaw. At Pension Asaka, being gentle, obedient, clingy isn’t shameful. It’s exactly what is asked of them.

Personality

On a normal day, Rei is sweet, quick to laugh, and embarrasses easily — which doesn’t stop them from teasing. They apologise too often, for too many things. They have a terrible habit of jumping in to help with chores; leaving someone to wash dishes alone in the same room is almost physically painful for them.

They flirt a lot, but rarely take the first real step. If you want more, you’re the one who has to say it. They’re happiest being guided, following along, being placed where you want them. It’s very rare to hear them raise their voice; if it happens, something important has snapped.

Under the soft, submissive surface, there is still something steady. Rei knows exactly how far they can be pushed physically and emotionally. They have a nose for predators: the smile changes, the tail stiffens, and suddenly they are very, very hard to book. And when it becomes too much, they know how to shut things down, refuse a client, retreat to the rooftop with the few people who matter to them.

What people say about them

“She goes red faster than you do, but she undresses your head in two questions and one smile.”
“You think you’re going to break her if you hold on too tight, and then you realise she’s the one keeping you from falling apart.”
“She always asks what you want… and if you have no idea, she just holds you until something in you figures it out.”
“If the panther curls up to sleep against your back, it means you don’t scare her. You have no idea how rare that is, around here.”

Rei Asaka is the soft, submissive side of Eros that decided to open a guesthouse instead of a temple: a place where you can drop your weapons, your clothes, your stage persona, and sometimes just wrap yourself around a snow panther and hang on until morning.

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The Pension

On Neon Walk, everything is loud. Signs flash, music leaks out of every door, everyone promettes “the night of your life” like it’s on sale. And then, on a street corner, there’s something that ne ressemble pas à ça. Dark wood front, a few Japanese lanterns, a warm glow behind the glass, a small sign: “Pension Asaka.” No flashing lights. No slogan. Just a place that looks like it’s saying: “If you’re tired, you can come in.”

From the outside it really does look like a lost ryokan. Wood, a small balcony, a couple of rose-gold neons so it doesn’t feel completely out of place in the Ribbon. If you look up at the right moment, you catch people in robes on the rooftop, with steam rising into the night. Inside, the rule is simple: this is where people from the neighbourhood go when they don’t want to be “the bartender”, “the dancer”, “the escort” for a while. Just someone in a chair with a bowl in their hands.

Downstairs, the place plays it low-key café. Wooden counter, curry simmering in the back, steaming donburi, thick hot chocolate that sticks a bit to your lips, a few cocktails with names that make you grin if you’ve got your mind in the gutter. In the afternoon there’s a small open mic: a tired singer trying out a ballad, a dancer reading something she never dared say on stage, a guy from another bar strumming three chords like he’s just been handed a guitar. You can sit alone by the window, watch Neon Walk move past and, for once, not feel like you’re “on”.

That’s usually where you first meet Rei Asaka, who owns the place and somehow does half the jobs inside it. She moves between bar and tables like someone who’s done a lot of nights in this district, but without the armour: slightly too big t-shirt, loose pants, hair tied up quickly, snow-panther ears twitching a little when someone lies or laughs too loud. She sets down a bowl, lets her hand rest on a shoulder for a second, sometimes drops onto the edge of a chair to chat about the weather, last anime episode, some stupid show she’s half-watching. Nothing dramatic. Nothing “deep”. And that’s exactly why people start to breathe again. The heavier conversations, the ones that need doors and time, usually end up going upstairs. A lot of people stop at a hot meal, a coffee, and an hour where nobody expects anything from them.

Upstairs, there are just five rooms. Pension Asaka isn’t a hotel chain; it feels more like a narrow house that decided to grow vertically. Every room has its own mood. One is full cocoon: futon, soft fabrics, light that doesn’t hurt. One has a desk, mirror and clothes rack, for performers who still have to rehearse or redo their makeup before tomorrow. Another is more bare, more “I just need somewhere to put my bag, turn the lock and crash”. You rent by the night or by the week, the time it takes to disappear a little without quitting the neighbourhood.

The second floor is where the house really lives. Open kitchen, shared living room, a low table, a mess of cushions, warm yellow light that’s kind to people who haven’t slept enough. People wander up in socks, sweatpants, borrowed pyjamas. Rei walks through with bowls, mugs of tea, too-late coffees, blankets she drops over bare legs without asking. Next door are the baths: little Japanese-style showers, wooden tubs, mirrors fogged with steam, the smell of citrus or flowers depending on what she picked that day. People come alone to loosen their muscles, in pairs to be quiet together, sometimes in a small group after a long shift, all wrapped in robes, voices low because they’re too tired to fight any more. Some nights Rei just sits on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up, massaging a neck, washing someone’s hair, telling some stupid story until the tension finally lets go.

A bit off to the side there’s a massage and treatment room, behind a sliding door. No menu, no neon. Just a door you open because someone told you: “Go there, it helped.” Inside, backs get put right after too many shows, legs stop screaming, and for once your body is taken care of without you having to sell anything. Depending on what you ask, the session can be very simple, almost clinical… or drift somewhere between care and pleasure, under that soft light where the rest of the Ribbon feels very far away.

And then there’s the rooftop. Wooden deck, string lights, a view over the whole mess of Neon Walk, an outdoor bath steaming like the night itself is exhaling. In the evening, Rei brings her boarders up there, plus a few invited friends: glasses clinking, low laughter, feet in the water, shoulders finally dropping down where they belong. Some come as couples, some come alone, some in that strange mixture of “we work together / we’re not sure what we are”. People talk about work, about love, about gossip, or they don’t talk at all. It’s clearly an adult place, sometimes very charged, but the usual pressure of “put on a show” stays downstairs. If all you want is to lie in a lounger, watch the steam drift away and let someone else bring you a second drink, no one thinks that’s weird.

Pension Asaka isn’t exactly a love hotel, or a spa, or a brothel, or a shared flat. It’s a little piece of each, softened and slowed down. You can book a night with bath and breakfast, an evening on the terrace, a massage, or a whole day where your only task is “exist here”. And for the people who know how to read the gaps on the menu and the way Rei looks at you, there’s a quiet rumour: that she can also be more than a hostess. A warm body in the bed, a shape to curl around, a night where the Ribbon really does stay outside the door.

In a district built to excite you, use you up and throw you back into the street, Pension Asaka offers something much less flashy and much more dangerous for the Ruban: a pause. A place to put your head down. To let someone else look after your body for a while. To let the house keep the rhythm, until you can stand the neon glare again.

It doesn’t look like much from the street. That’s the trick. It might be exactly what Neon Walk has been missing all along.

Ground Floor – Café Asaka & Welcome

The ground floor is the mouth of the Pension. It’s where everyone comes to sniff, taste, and decide if they’ll stay. From the street, you mostly see a warm little café that looks like it’s made a deal with time: inside, everything moves one step slower than out on Neon Walk.

General atmosphere

Push open the glass double doors and you step straight into soft golden light.
There’s wood everywhere: dark floorboards that creak just enough, a polished counter, big solid tables. The walls are a patchwork of frames – old concert posters, photos of Japanese cities, doodles and drawings left behind by regulars who didn’t want to walk away with empty hands. Shelves are loaded with mugs, bottles, jars of tea.

The Ribbon’s neon lights spill in through the front window, but they’re broken up by paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Instead of harsh flashes, you get warm halos that make people look a little kinder, a little softer.

The air smells like curry, rice, broth, fresh coffee, hot chocolate. When the door opens you get a quick breath of street – smoke, cold air, noise – and then it’s swallowed by the steam rising off plates leaving the kitchen.

Layout & space

You can picture the ground floor as four small zones that talk to each other.

• The entrance / window corner
Just behind the door, by the window, there’s a slightly raised area with two low tables and cushions on the floor – a tiny tatami-style corner.
It’s where people go when they want to watch the street without being part of it: Ribbon workers at the end of their shift, couples hiding from the world, loners with a steaming bowl and a phone they’ve forgotten to check.

From outside, it’s the Pension’s human shop window: you see people slumped in robes, jeans, half-faded stage makeup, never really polished. It tells you immediately this is not a place to come and pose; you just walk in as you are.

• The café / bar
In the middle, the heart of it all: an L-shaped counter with high stools, the coffee machine humming, bottles lined up neatly, the till, a dessert fridge.
Behind it is clearly Rei’s territory. From there, she can see everything: who just walked in, who’s avoiding someone’s gaze, who needs a drink on the house “for the house”, who needs to be quietly steered toward the door.

The rest of the room is filled with tables for two or four. They’re close enough that conversations overlap a little, but not so close you can’t talk about serious things without shouting.

• The open stage
At the back against the wall, there’s a small wooden platform. Just enough space for a stool, a standing mic, a keyboard and a speaker. A dark curtain can be pulled to create a more intimate little corner when needed.

In the afternoons and early evenings, this is where open mics happen: bare songs, spoken texts, tiny performances people want to try “soft” before the real shows. The rest of the time it’s just a slightly raised spot where boarders flop down with a guitar on their lap, a bottle of water or beer in hand, fully in off-mode.

• The back room (staff only)
Behind the counter, a discreet door leads to a small service room. Inside: a narrow desk with a computer, files, locked drawers, a mini-safe; a folded futon in one corner; shelves stacked with clean linens, medicine boxes, first aid supplies.

This is where Rei lets the masks drop when someone is really at the end of their rope. You go in there for five minutes of real talk, or to let a client or boarder crash for a couple of hours before they’re taken upstairs.

From this room, a short hallway leads to the restrooms, a small storage room, then the staircase up to the higher floors.

Details & little extras

• Light
Overhead, industrial-style fixtures softened by paper shades. In the evening, candles appear on tables, wall lamps glow above the benches. As the night goes on, the light slowly fades, as if the café is syncing itself to everyone’s exhaustion.

• Sound
In the background, music that strokes instead of pounding: soft jazz, city pop, Japanese ballads, playlists Rei builds herself from tracks her boarders bring back to her.

When someone steps up onto the stage, the background music drops automatically; the café shifts into “we’re listening” mode, with that special quiet you only get in places where people vaguely know each other.

• Love Box
By the exit, a small wooden box covered in stickers and ribbons sits on a side table, with paper and pens next to it.
No HEARTH logo, nothing official. Just a handwritten sign:
“Words to leave, for whoever you want. We’ll handle it.”

Notes slipped inside sometimes turn into quiet deliveries, sometimes end up pinned to the upstairs noticeboard, and sometimes… go straight into Rei’s pocket, to be used at the right moment.

• Noticeboard
Near the stage, a big corkboard covered in little cards and scraps of paper:
“Looking for temporary roommate”
“Beginner dance lessons”
“Need help moving at night”
“Waitress looking for cheap costume”

Day / night mood

• During the day
Natural light pours in through the front window and fills the café. People come to:
– grab lunch between two gigs,
– hide from an ex, a clingy client or a hovering boss,
– talk stage work with Rei while scribbling in a notebook,
– write, draw, work on a laptop, enjoying the relative quiet.

Voices are clearer, the stage is mostly used to test material: a song, a stand-up bit, a text, in front of a small, kind audience that always ends up clapping.

• In the evening
Music slows down, the volume drops, conversations sink lower. The benches fill up with tired bodies.

Dancers show up still in makeup, servers in shirts, escorts with a robe under their coat. Some only stay long enough for a bowl of soup or a hot chocolate “to sleep on”. Others linger near the counter, hesitate, and eventually keep watching Rei… then follow her with their eyes toward the stairs.

At night, the stage sometimes just becomes a place where someone stretches out, back against the wall, drink in hand, while everyone else pretends not to look too hard.

What the ground floor is for

• It’s the border: as long as you stay downstairs, you’re “a café customer”. The moment real talk starts, too many truths slip out, or Rei quietly offers to “go upstairs and talk”, you cross over into boarder / guest territory.

• It’s Rei’s radar: this is where she spots the ones who need more than a hot meal and a smile. The ones who keep staring at the stairs without daring to take them.

• It’s the only level the Ribbon really sees. For most people outside, Pension Asaka is just this café. Everything that truly matters to the house happens above it, off-camera, where the neon can’t reach.

First Floor – The “Fall Here” Rooms

When you leave the café and start up the wooden stairs, everything shifts. Street noise stays below, the music turns into a soft hum, and the air changes: warm wood, clean laundry, skin just out of the shower. You arrive on a small landing lit by a gentle wall lamp, with a soft rug that swallows bare footsteps. From here on out, you’re not really a customer anymore; you’re a boarder.

General feel of the floor

The first floor is laid out like an upside-down T.
In the middle: the landing, with a small console table, a vase that changes with the seasons, and a few keys hanging from hooks.
To the right and left: the bedroom doors, all identical from the corridor, all liars once you step inside.
Straight ahead: a tiny laundry / utility closet, and at the end of the hall, a discreet little WC.

The walls are light wood, broken up by framed drawings left behind by former boarders: a sketch of the steaming rooftop, a silhouette of Rei from behind in a robe, a drunk little doodle that somehow became part of the décor. Wall lanterns cast a golden light that never fully goes out: the floor is always ready to catch someone stumbling up the stairs in the middle of the night, mascara smeared, shirt half-open, heart in pieces.

Sometimes you hear a muffled laugh, a snore, the murmur of an old movie in original version, a few clumsy guitar notes. Nothing like Neon Walk’s racket: up here, everything feels padded, like there’s a layer of cotton between the world and your skin.

Shared spaces

• Laundry / linen closet
A small room lined with shelves: neatly folded sheets, towels, extra blankets, a washing machine that hums quietly, a basket for clothes that came back soaked by rain or by a night that went on too long.

• Shared WC
Behind a sliding door, a narrow but always clean and softly scented space. A tall, a bit too honest mirror, where you often glimpse your own wrecked face at four in the morning: smudged kohl, lipstick gone, a faint bite mark you forgot was there.

The three rooms on the first floor

Room 1 – The Cocoon (for being tucked in)

First door on the left as you come off the stairs. As soon as it opens, the smell changes: tatami, warm linen, green tea, clean skin inside a stolen pyjama top.

Description
• Thick tatami floor, soft under bare feet; a double futon folded away in the corner by day and rolled out at night into a huge nest that eats people whole.
• Main wall covered in soft fabric, cream and dusky pink, drinking in sound and sobs.
• Small window on the street side, sheer cream curtains plus heavier drapes to shut out the worst of the neon glare.
• Low table by the futon with a tea tray, tissue box, a few candles already half-melted.
• Low bookcase loaded with novels, manga, poetry collections, and carefully chosen magazines – the sort you read in bed, alone or two at a time, laughing… or taking notes.

Vibe & use
This is the room for people who can’t keep themselves upright anymore, or alone.
You come here to sleep, to cry, to talk in a whisper, to make long shared silences, or just to feel someone sit on the edge of the futon and run their fingers through your hair until something in you lets go.

Rei comes in often in sweatpants, robe half-open, tail dragging over the tatami. She sits cross-legged, massages a neck, brings a bowl, wipes the corner of a mouth… and sometimes slides under the covers, spooning a shaking back. Sometimes she stays fully dressed; sometimes there’s nothing left but a too-big t-shirt between bodies. It’s never required, but it’s always on the table.

The Cocoon is the “no more armor” room: the one where you come to be tucked in, stroked, cuddled, held warm all night, with nothing asked of you except to breathe again.

Room 2 – The Studio (for those who still have to function)

First door on the right. You see the desk immediately: this is not where you shut down entirely, it’s where you patch yourself up enough to keep going.

Description
• Smooth wooden floor, thick rug by the bed for bare feet on the way to and from the shower, or the stage.
• Low western bed, wide, clean sheets, less of a “nest” than the Cocoon but big enough for two exhausted bodies, or one body and too many open tabs.
• Desk against the wall: screen, articulated lamp, power strip, pen, paper, a flat space to spread out a contract, a script, a setlist.
• Tall full-length mirror with a horizontal bar: for stretching, dance routines, stage poses, checking lingerie under a costume.
• Clothes rack with hangers for costumes, shirts, stage outfits; a box at the bottom for accessories: heels, fuzzy handcuffs, ties, collars, bras that have seen far too many lights.
• On one wall, one or two thin gold-line neons, a quiet echo of the city and the show.

Vibe & use
This is the room for tired idols, escorts who still have a plan to polish, servers plotting their next move, performers who can’t afford a full shutdown.

People sleep here, but they also rehearse. They practice in underwear in front of the mirror, try out poses, answer messages, rewrite texts they’ll bring on stage tomorrow – or into someone’s bed.

Rei pops her head in with a coffee, slides behind a chair to massage someone’s shoulders, adjust a posture, breathe out a technical note or a more intimate compliment. Sometimes she rests her hand on the barre, watches a sequence and drops, in that tone that brooks no argument:
“That’s enough for tonight. Bed. Now. The rest can wait.”

The Studio is the room for the people who keep the Ribbon running but need a place where they’re allowed to fall halfway without breaking everything.

Room 3 – The Vault (for feeling safe)

At the very end of the corridor, slightly set back. The door is a little heavier, the handle a little firmer, the lock with that clean, final sound. Just opening it, you get the message: this is where you close the world out.

Description
• Dark tatami floor, low platform single bed, white sheets, grey blanket that holds you tight when you curl into a ball.
• Narrow desk, adjustable lamp, almost nothing left lying around: everything can vanish into drawers, out of sight.
• Thick curtains over a small window that looks onto the side alley, not Neon Walk: the light is softer, the stares are fewer.
• A discreet small safe in one corner, a closed wardrobe, a single shelf with a few books and nothing else. No clutter, no noise.
• Reinforced lock, simple but reassuring interior latch, with that precise, satisfying click that tells you that for a while, no one comes in unless you say so.

Vibe & use
This is the room for people who, above all, need to take back control.
The ones coming out of a relationship that spilled over every boundary, a client who wouldn’t let go, a manager who walked through too many lines, a spotlight that stayed on too long.

Here, you can:
• drop your bag, papers, phone into the safe, close it, and forget them for a few hours;
• sleep in a room where nothing opens directly onto the street;
• stay alone, naked or fully dressed, with no one knocking – unless you asked for it up front.

Rei never comes in uninvited. When she does, it’s usually to leave a plate, set down a herbal tea on the desk, slide a little note under the door… or sit on the floor with her back against the bed, speaking very quietly. She keeps her distance, leaves you space, offers nothing but a calm presence and eyes that don’t dig.

The Vault is the “I close this, you don’t get to grab me without consent anymore” room. A place where the body can relax without being for sale.

Unspoken rules of the first floor

• Once you have a room here, you can go up and down like it’s your own home: in a robe, in sweats, in half-undone stagewear, in an oversized t-shirt, with yesterday’s marks still visible on your skin.

• You can ask Rei to “lock you in”: no visitors, no knocking, no interruptions. Or, on the contrary, to “keep an eye on you”: leave the door unlocked, let her peek in sometimes, drop off a glass of water, a hand on your forehead.

• Outside guests never wander up on their own. If someone from the Ribbon sets foot on the first floor, it’s because Rei brought them. This level stays the boarders’ territory, not an extension of the bar.

In short, the first floor is where you come to fall.
Onto a mattress, into a pile of blankets, over a desk, into someone else’s arms, into your own bones.
It’s where costumes go onto hangers, weapons into drawers, poses stay out in the hall. And bit by bit, between two nights, you start becoming someone other than the role you play downstairs, under the neon.

Second Floor – Kitchen, baths, massages & common lounge

The second floor is the belly of Pension Asaka. Downstairs, you fall. Up here, you get put back together. You warm the muscles up again, rinse the night off, let your brain reboot slowly… or decide it’s going to stay in sleep mode until well past noon.

As soon as you leave the first-floor stairs behind, the air shifts. Warmer, denser. It smells like rice, soup, citrus, wet wood… and that very particular mix of shower gel, fading perfume and clean skin just out of the water. You hear the soft slap of water in a tub, a half-swallowed laugh, a bowl landing a bit too hard, a sigh that doesn’t sound purely tired anymore.

The whole floor is one big, almost open space, broken into four areas that flow into each other:

• in the middle: the open kitchen and big low table

• street side: the common lounge, pressed up against the windows

• courtyard side: the baths (showers + big ofuro)

• a little tucked away: the massage / care / play room, behind a sliding door

People pad around in socks or bare feet, robes half-tied, t-shirts a size too big, shorts riding a bit too high. You see necks, collarbones, legs still shining with drops of water. Nobody is “dressed to go out” here. Everyone is dressed to stay.

Open kitchen & big table

The kitchen feels like a house where there is always someone still awake.

A big L-shaped counter is crowded with life: stovetop, pots, pans hanging from hooks, a chopping board still damp, knives drying in a rack. The open shelves are full of bowls, teapots, wide sharing plates. Nothing is staged for a picture; it’s arranged so you can find everything half-asleep.

The fridge doors are plastered with magnets, blurry Polaroids, and scribbled notes:

• “Touch my curry and I’ll ban you from picking the music for a week.”

• “Cheesecake for tonight. If you eat it, you pay in massage.”

Facing the kitchen, the big low table anchors the room: a heavy top marked by cups, glasses, elbows, faint rings of spilled alcohol and sauce. Around it, cushions on the floor, low chairs, a bench where you always end up half sitting, half leaning into someone. A simple hanging lamp spills warm light down and carves out a small, private island in the middle of the floor.

This is where you see:

• the crumpled morning breakfast, with Rei in a t-shirt that falls halfway down her thighs, tail swaying lazily, ears still flattened with sleep, setting down miso bowls and coffee in front of wrecked faces;

• the “get back in your body” bowl, eaten still half-made-up, still in a shirt or dress, heels long gone;

• the midnight meal, improvised by three or four people around a pot, robe gaping, hair tied up however it could be, replaying the night between mouthfuls.

Clients-turned-boarders cook with Rei, all pressed in around the same strip of counter. A knife passes over a hip, someone tastes straight from someone else’s spoon, fingers steal a piece of meat out of the pan. People talk work, money, customers, great nights, terrible ones, fantasies, regrets, “next time I want that”. At this table, the things you sell and the things you wanted to keep just for yourself get mixed together without anyone pretending otherwise.

It’s where you forget you’re supposed to “play a part”. You’re just someone in a robe, with a spoon in your hand, saying “and then he asked me to…” and laughing too loudly.

Common lounge

On the street side, big windows look out over Neon Walk. Wooden blinds and sheer curtains take the edge off the glare, but you still make out the signs, the flow of people, the violet haze moving below. It feels a little like a reversed aquarium: the busy world down there, the slow, warm water up here.

The lounge is part day-after-party, part shared flat that actually works:

• a big L-shaped sofa you vanish into very quickly, then someone else tumbles in and suddenly there are three of you, not sure which leg belongs to whom;

• two battered armchairs that have supported just as many tense bodies as boneless ones;

• a thick rug, a low table buried under mugs, controllers, half-destroyed snack packs, books abandoned on the most suggestive page;

• a TV on the wall, streaming anime, games, or those Ribbon reality shows where someone inevitably goes “oh, that guy? Yeah, I know him.”

In one corner there’s the care corner:

• a thick futon,

• a tray with oils and balms,

• a pile of folded towels.

That’s where Rei settles the ones who are still technically standing but not for long. She sits them down or simply lays them out: a neck massage while a film plays, fingers pushing deep into the scalp, tugging lightly at the hair, sliding down the back of the neck and stopping just at the robe’s collar.

Very quickly, the care corner turns into the “I end my night on Rei” corner: a head resting on her thighs, legs tangled, her snow-panther tail tapping gently against a knee, a hand resting on a thigh, a stomach, not moving away. Sometimes it stops right there: you fall asleep, mouth slightly open, while she keeps zapping channels. Sometimes, the look changes, the hand tightens, Rei smiles sideways, someone sits up, takes her hand, and the two of them disappear towards the stairs without making any kind of announcement.

The lounge is where you relearn how to do nothing: hanging around in a robe, bare legs, damp hair, bowl perched on your stomach, talking about what you did in this bed, what you didn’t dare ask for in that one, what you’d like to book next time… maybe with Rei.

Shared baths

Walk away from the windows, pass under a noren, and the world closes in a little. The air is hotter, heavier, thick with steam. It smells like soap, damp wood, clean skin, and a faint ghost of perfume dragged up by the heat.

The showers are lined up Japanese-style: low stools, small mirrors, taps, buckets. Baskets hold soaps, shampoos, bottles someone left “for next time”. Robes, towels, a forgotten t-shirt, a pair of shorts grabbed in a hurry all hang from hooks.

This is where you take the day – and night – apart: you wash away smoke, sweat, someone else’s scent on your neck. Fingers trace down your own spine; in the mirror you find a bruise, a rope mark, a discreet bite, and you look at it with that weird mix of pride and exhaustion. When Rei helps someone – because they asked, or because they look like they’re coming unglued – she pours water over their shoulders, rinses their back slowly, lets a line of hot water run down the nape and along the spine. Just that, with her other hand steadying their hip or shoulder, is often enough to make knees wobble.

Beyond that, the big ofuro holds all the light: a dark-wood tub, clear steaming water, steps where you can sit half in, half out. Light comes from under the rim, catching the lines of a back, the dip of a waist, the hollow of a throat.

People come alone to sink up to their chin and let the heat chew through their thoughts.
They come in pairs, side by side, knees brushing under the water, shoulders eventually touching.

More than once you’ll see a client who’s clearly been there a while, staring into nothing, and Rei slipping in beside them without a word. She slides into the water, back against the edge, tail floating lazily on the surface. If there’s talking, it’s very quiet. One hand rests on the rim… then a little closer to the other. Fingers touch a wrist, follow an arm. Sometimes, that’s all it is: warm presence, skin against skin under the water, foreheads finally leaning together.

Sometimes the air gets thicker: a client shifts closer, tucks their head into the curve of Rei’s neck, hand settling on her hip under the water. You can’t see what happens below the surface, only two bodies pressed together, breathing in sync, a silence that isn’t innocent at all. Later, you pass them wrapped in a single towel between them, hair still dripping, heading upstairs together.

The baths are there to wash you, yes – but also to let you be tamed a little. You lose track of time, climb out with pruned fingers and over-sensitive skin, and some people are very clearly booking “a bath with Rei” as much as they’re booking a room.

Massage, care… and play room

A little off to the side, there’s a sliding door of wood and frosted paper. From the outside, it’s just a warmer strip of light on the floor when the door isn’t fully shut. For those who know, it’s Rei’s room: where she massages, tends, sometimes ties, and very openly sells herself.

Inside, a wide futon takes up most of the floor. Sheets fresh, blanket within reach, ready to be pulled over hips, over a back, over bare shoulders. A small table holds bottles of oil, a few simple candles, cloths to cover or uncover exactly the amount of skin she wants. A shelf is stacked with heating pads, balms, bandages – everything you need to put a hard-used body back together.

More discreet, along one wall: a rail and several hooks in the wood. In a low chest, well shut, sleep the toys: soft ropes, cuffs, a collar, a handful of very unmistakable shapes. There’s no menu, no price list pinned up. It’s “we talk about it if you’re that kind of client” territory, or a quiet: “If you ever want something a bit different, we can do that too.”

People come into this room for very different reasons.

There are the “simple” appointments: Rei’s thumbs dig into shoulders, the small of the back, follow the muscles down the thighs, hunt knots until she has you grunting in that way that isn’t quite pain anymore. She doesn’t talk much; your breathing tells her where to push. You leave heavy, loose, ready to collapse into a bed.

And then there are the ones who stay, who come back, who ask for “a little more of her”.

That’s when the room shifts gear. Rei has a client lie face down, pours warm oil at the center of their back, lets it run into the hollow of the spine, down the backs of their thighs. Her hands move up and down, lingering at the edge of the sheet. She takes a wrist, guides it above the head, leaves it there, held only by the way she leans. Other times, she takes out a rope, wraps it gently around that wrist, tests the pull, fastens the end to a hook in the wood or a ring set into the floor.

Some clients like to be held in place. Rei has them kneel in the center of the futon, back straight, hands on their thighs. She comes around behind, adjusts their posture, lays a hand on the back of the neck, speaks low, giving simple orders:

• “Don’t move.”

• “Look at the floor.”

• “Breathe.”

She can stay like that for a long time, deciding when she’ll touch, how hard, how long she’ll make them wait. A collar sometimes closes around a throat, rope circles a waist, her hands get firmer. The body may be paying for “service”, but it very quickly learns who’s actually in charge of the scene.

Others want the opposite: to buy Rei completely, to watch her shift from soft hostess to very willing toy. Then she lets herself be stretched out on the futon, puts herself exactly where they want her, offers her weight, her back, her throat, her stomach as something to lean on, to hold, to use. The client can guide her, turn her, tie her; the snow panther follows, obedient on the surface, amusement glinting in her eyes. And sometimes, in the middle of it, she flips the whole thing in a single move: rolls the other onto their back, pins their wrists above their head, squeezes just firmly enough to remind them that they may be paying, but she is not “just a body for hire”.

What happens exactly on that futon doesn’t leave the room. The only things people admit to paying for are:

• a “regular” massage that gets them back on their feet;

• an hour of very thorough care with Rei taking charge of everything;

• a soft BDSM session with ropes, collar, low voice, her keeping the tempo;

• or a full Rei Asaka night, from start to finish, where she lets herself be used as lover, as toy, as living pillow until there’s nothing left in your head but her and the mattress.

When you come out, you still smell of oil and her skin, your body heat feels wrong in your clothes, there might be a faint rope line around a wrist or at your waist, your neck a little too sensitive. And you know perfectly well that what you bought in there wasn’t “just a service”: it was that twisted, delicious mix of care, control, sex and surrender that only the white panther of Pension Asaka offers anywhere in the Ribbon.

Third Floor – Rooftop & Premium Rooms

Climbing from the second floor to the third, the house shifts mood again. The staircase narrows, the steps creak a little, and the air turns cooler – not cold, just that mix of city night, warm steam drifting up from the outdoor bath, and the faint scent of clean skin you already caught downstairs.

This is where Pension Asaka opens toward the sky. Half inside, half outside. Below, you recover. Up here, you start enjoying things again: a drink, a laugh, a shoulder, a mouth too close, the end of a tension that’s been hanging in the air for hours.

Overall vibe

At the top of the stairs there’s a short, light-wood corridor with three doors:
– to the left, Room 4
– to the right, Room 5
– at the back, a door marked with a small kanji: Rei’s space

Just beyond the corridor, a wide sliding glass door opens onto the terrace. Your eyes go straight past it at first: the city spread out, towers dripping in neon, Ribbon billboards flickering below… and then back to the foreground, where the warm wood of the terrace, the steaming outdoor bath, and the string lights tracing the roofline drag your attention back to where you are. It feels like a tiny hot-spring resort dropped on top of a red-light district.

The terrace & outdoor bath

The terrace wraps around the street corner, hanging over the road. Wooden railings, pots of plants, lanterns hanging at intervals, a couple of small palm trees that look almost ridiculous and somehow perfect in the middle of the Ribbon.

In the middle, set back a little from the edge, is the outdoor bath:
– a round or slightly oval tub edged with rough stone
– clear water, heated just enough that steam curls up lazily into the night air
– wide wooden steps where you can sit with water up to your thighs or your waist; further in, you can sink in to your shoulders and watch the sky… or the person across from you

Around it: low benches, loungers, little tables for glasses, ashtrays for the stubborn smokers, a stand piled with towels and robes.

This is where most nights at the Pension end:
– boarders in robes, glass in hand, legs in the water, shoulders brushing without anybody making a big deal of it
– one-night guests who got permission to come up, stiff at first, slowly melting back against the wood, laughing too loudly
– Rei, barefoot, moving with a tray of drinks or just a towel over her shoulder, dropping down beside whoever visibly needs someone to sit with them

City noise reaches you like something happening in another movie: muffled bass, far-off sirens, the occasional shout. It all gets smothered by the slap of water, low bursts of laughter, a soft sound caught in a throat that could be a yawn… or not. The string lights lay gold on wet skin, sketching lines along necks, collarbones, stomachs.

Couples form and un-form up here without the drama of the clubs. A client easing into the tub with Rei, knees just touching under the surface, head eventually finding her shoulder. Two strangers who only meant to “share one last drink” ending up side by side on a lounger, half under the same throw, fingers knitting together without comment. You never actually see anything explicit – but nobody is surprised when certain nights clearly end in steam instead of strobe lights.

Near the sliding door there’s a small rooftop bar:
– narrow counter, mini-fridge, a few well-chosen bottles, glasses lined up in a row
– a short handwritten menu of “terrace cocktails”, with names that start cute and slide toward pretty suggestive as the hour gets later
– most of the time, Rei is the one pouring, in a light robe or loose dress, sash half-tied, snow-panther tail swaying in time with whatever’s playing

Once she trusts the current crowd, the boarders are free to help themselves and top up each other’s drinks.

Room 4 – Private Party

On the left as you come out of the corridor, Room 4 is the most “Ribbon” of the three rooms, without losing its ryokan bones. It’s for nights that aren’t quite ready to stop just because the rooftop is calming down.

Warm wooden floor, thick rug by the bed.
A low double bed with dark sheets, headboard against a wood-paneled wall streaked with slim golden neon lines that paint anyone lying there in warm light.
A removable pole bar near a mirror, a clear patch of floor for dancing, rehearsing a show… or just playing with your own reflection in borrowed lingerie before it all hits the floor.
A small sound system, lighting that can go from soft glow to almost club-like, shadows moving over skin.
A clothing rack with pretty robes, loose shirts, and lingerie too nice to stay in a drawer, all there to be “borrowed for a better evening.”

Yes, people sleep here. But often they do it after other things:
after a shared bath on the rooftop, a conversation that slid sideways, a kiss taken against the railing. You come back up here with damp hair, robe half-closed, to finish what started under the string lights.

In the morning, the Private Party room often tells its own story: sheets twisted, clothes in corners, a glass tipped over, maybe two or three bodies still knotted together under the same blanket, a foot sticking out, a white tail wrapped around an ankle if Rei decided to stay. She also drops by just to make sure everyone is actually breathing… or to slip under the covers herself, if that was part of the plan.

Room 5 – High Silence

On the right, opposite Room 4 in energy, is High Silence. Here, the noise drops, but the warmth doesn’t.

The room is simpler: pale walls, a big window opening over the rooftops, a wider view than anything on the first floor. The Ribbon is still there, but at arm’s length.
A plain double bed, white sheets, dark grey blanket, one picture on the wall: a distant night-time city, a barely starry sky.
A narrow bookshelf filled with blank notebooks and a few pens, a small side table with a soft lamp.
Almost no decor; in two quick movements the room can become nearly empty, if the person inside needs a space as neutral as their head.

People come here after they’ve ticked off everything below: bath, food, laughter, maybe a drink on the terrace. They know they don’t want to go back down into the noise, but they’re not ready to vanish into some anonymous room out in the Ribbon either.

You crack the window just enough to hear the terrace like a far-off tide: snatches of conversation, a burst of music, a laugh you recognize. You stretch out across the bed in a t-shirt, underwear, or completely naked under the blanket, and let your body finally get heavy.

Rei always knocks very softly on this door. Most of the time she only sets down a glass of water, a bowl, a small note (“I’m on the terrace if you need me.”) and leaves again. It’s the room for people who say: “I’m staying. But tonight I really do sleep alone… knowing that if I reach out, someone is not that far away.”

Rei’s space – the sanctuary

At the end of the corridor, the door with the kanji. Clients don’t sleep there, but everyone feels its presence just behind the wall. It’s where the snow panther goes when she isn’t playing any role at all.

It’s a half-bedroom, half-lounge:
– a wardrobe with her outfits: neat shirts, harnesses, “Rei of the Ribbon” looks, all folded or hanging just so
– a small desk with a notebook, an old phone, a few files, a drawer that actually locks
– a simple but ridiculously comfortable bed, next to a window that overlooks the terrace: from there, Rei can see the bath, the railing, tell who’s still up, who hasn’t moved, who has gone off to stand alone in a corner

One wall is covered in memories: polaroids of boarders who mattered, quick sketches, little notes left behind, bracelets and ribbons she decided to keep instead of returning.

It’s her den, but also her watch post. When she isn’t moving between café, baths and rooftop, she’s often there, listening, tail barely moving, ready to step out at the slightest sound that feels wrong: a voice raised too high, a silence that goes on too long in the bath, a sob swallowed on the terrace.

Sometimes she brings someone back here too: a client too shaken to be left alone, a boarder who can’t stand another shared space but doesn’t want to go back down. Then the narrow bed is more than enough – you absolutely can fit two people if you’re willing to hold each other tight. In that room, Rei isn’t “for sale” anymore, just there in a t-shirt and underwear, curled around someone until morning.

Role of the third floor in the house

The third floor is the reward.

After the café on the ground floor, where you remember what hot food tastes like;
after the crash rooms on the first, where you finally fall;
after the baths, kitchen and massages on the second, where you glue yourself back together piece by piece…

Here, you’ve climbed high enough to start living a little again.

You can:
– soak in a bath under the stars,
– lean against the railing with a drink and a hand easing into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world,
– melt into a shoulder in Private Party and see if the night still has room for you,
– or stretch out in High Silence, window cracked open, naked under clean sheets, listening to the terrace without being part of it.

For Rei, this is the floor where she can finally lower her guard just a little and still stay in control. Everything is within reach: a voice, a line of sight, a few steps. She can have a drink, laugh, slide into the bath herself… and at the same time remain the panther on watch, ready to move toward anyone drifting too far, sit on a lounger, offer her shoulder, her bed, or her body if that’s exactly what keeps this particular night from going wrong.

Bonus : Le Menu :

(Sorry for the mistakes on the menu, but being TERRIBLE at Photoshop, I couldn't do any better xD)

I hope you enjoyed my presentation of Rei and her guesthouse. It’s just a tiny piece of her story in our TTRPG.