There is artistry to her retribution.

The avant-garde glow of salt lamps bounces off walls covered in colorful tapestries, assaulting his senses along with the pitiless sting of incense as he walks into the small counseling center's waiting room.

He resists the urge to cover his nose, eyes watering as he scans the space.

There.

In the corner flipping through a magazine, the miko sits, trying not to laugh as she hums along with the chime-like tones of the Tibetan singing bowl playing over the sound system.

He glares and makes his way over. "Kagome."

She smirks. "Something wrong?"

"Patchouli."