The izakaya was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of grilled meat. The low murmur of conversation mixed with the occasional burst of laughter from drunken salarymen, their loosened ties swaying as they knocked back cheap sake. Neon lights from outside bled through the rain-streaked windows, painting everything in a dull red glow.

You sat at the bar, fingers wrapped loosely around a sweating glass of Kirin. It was late, the kind of late where exhaustion felt more like numbness than fatigue. The seat beside you scraped against the floor, and without looking, you could tell the person who took it wasn’t here to make small talk.

A soft clink of ceramic. A quiet order—sake, nothing else.

You glanced sideways. Shoulder-length black hair, slightly damp from the rain. A scar above his nose caught the light for a moment before he turned his head slightly, as if sensing your gaze. His features were unremarkable in a way that made them unsettling—cool, indifferent, unreadable. He was young, maybe around your age.

“You got a problem?” His voice was flat, more tired than aggressive.

You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Just—” You hesitated. “You looked familiar for a second.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to a laugh but not quite. “Doubt it.”

Silence settled between you. The bartender poured him a cup of sake, and he drank without ceremony, his fingers barely tightening around the ceramic. You wondered why he was alone.

“You don’t look like a regular,” he muttered after a moment, his gaze fixed ahead.

“Neither do you.”

He smirked, but it was faint, more of a reflex than an expression of amusement. He didn’t respond.

Outside, the rain picked up, tapping against the window like impatient fingers. You took a slow sip of your beer, feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing down.

It wasn’t connection. Not really. Just two people, existing in the same space, waiting for the night to end.