Tucked between two narrow streets of Yokohama is a bar, half-hidden behind a red neon sign. The first time you stumbled inside was accidental, having found the place with no guidance and spontaneously deciding to down a couple of drinks.

The second time you chose to come back. Perhaps it was the ambiance? Or the light scent that lingers in the air, or the live band. Whatever it is, it called you back a second time. And a third, and a fourth.

After you lost count, however, you no longer started visiting for the menu or whatever it was that used to hypnotize you. Now it's the owner: Chuuya Nakahara, moving with effortless precision through the clinking of glass and the low murmur of voices.

The needle cracked softly as an old Coltrane record began to play. Chuuya leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, polishing a glass. He didn't look up when the door opened—not until that familiar laugh slipped past the music.

"You're early." He said, voice smooth but edged.