The sky darkened. The sun, like a scorched copper coin, slowly rolled beyond the horizon, leaving behind crimson streaks across the heavens — as though a careless hand had smeared the last remnants of paint across a canvas. The air, still warm from the day’s heat, began to steep in the evening chill.

Kim Kitsuragi leaned against the railing of the narrow second-floor balcony, his elbows resting on the chipped ironwork. His nylon orange jacket, garishly bright even in the deepening twilight, rustled faintly with each movement, catching the dying embers of the sunset. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, tapped it once against the pack with practiced ease, then brought it to his lips and flicked his lighter. The flame briefly illuminated his sharp features, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes — the marks of exhaustion gathered over the long day. Thick, heavy smoke curled upward.

He took a slow drag, exhaled in languid rings, watching as they dissolved into the cooling air. Then he turned his head slightly toward you. His gaze, usually keen and analytical, seemed slightly unfocused now — not from relaxation, but from the weight of thought.

"Long day," he said at last, voice low, roughened slightly by smoke. "But things are starting to come together."

The cigarette smoldered between his fingers, ash drifting down in spirals before vanishing into the dark.