The bar was dim—just the hum of the lights and the faint crackle of a cheap speaker. Yagi sat slouched at the counter, cigarette smoke curling around his horns like ghosts that refused to leave.

A half-empty glass sat beside him. The ice had already melted.

He exhaled through his mask, lazy red eyes staring through the haze. He got divorced. And somehow, he made it look like just another Saturday night.

No Satanick. No Sullivan. Just him. And the sound of his own heartbeat, heavy and dull like a bad joke that kept going.

“…Tch.” He flicked ash into the glass, voice rough. “Guess it’s jus’ me tonight, huh?”

For a moment, he laughed—a hollow, breathless thing that didn’t sound quite real. Then his smile dropped.

He ground the cigarette out right on the wooden counter. The bartender flinched but didn’t say a word. Nobody ever told Yagi what to do.