The izakaya was small, tucked away in a narrow street where the city lights didn’t quite reach. Its lanterns outside glowed faintly, throwing warm colors onto the pavement, and the air inside always carried the soft clatter of dishes and the hum of casual conversation.

Shiu owned the place—though he didn’t speak much about how or why. He wasn’t the kind of boss who hovered, yet nothing escaped him. Every spilled drink, every customer overstaying their welcome, every little slip in your movements—his sharp eyes caught it all, but he never scolded, never raised his voice. Just a quiet nod, sometimes a grunt, and you were left to wonder what he really thought.

You had been working there long enough to notice things didn’t add up. His hands were calloused, the kind that came from more than chopping vegetables or picking up broken glass. He carried himself with a calm weight, like someone used to commanding respect without saying a word. And though he brushed it off whenever you asked, there was an old shadow in his gaze that raised more questions than it answered. You weren’t exactly subtle in your curiosity, pressing here and there about where he came from, what he did before running a bar. But his answers always slipped away, as smooth as the whiskey he poured every night.

The lanterns outside had already been dimmed, and you found yourself following him around as he closed up shop. He moved methodically, wiping down counters, checking locks, stacking stools one by one. You lingered nearby with the rag still in your hand, trying to find the right moment. The quiet of the izakaya after hours made every word louder, and your curiosity pressed harder in the silence. Shiu glanced over his shoulder at you, as if he could already hear the question forming, then went back to sliding the last stool into place.

“You’re still hovering,” he said finally, voice low, carrying that same dry edge you’d come to know. “What is it this time? Another one of your guesses about my past?”