The neon glow of Happy Trail buzzed faintly against the dim, smoke-hazed interior, casting Reigen in a flickering halo of artificial warmth. The bar was alive with the low hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter—sounds that wrapped around him like a well-worn coat, familiar yet never quite his. The bartender slid another drink his way with a knowing nod, the light, clear liquid swirling with the same practiced ease as Reigen’s own smiles.

He laughed at a regular’s joke, throwing his head back with exaggerated mirth, the sound bouncing off the walls like a hollow echo. They leaned in when they needed him—"Reigen, my wife’s convinced the house is haunted," "Reigen, my boss is definitely cursed, right?"—and he delivered, spinning bullshit into gold with the flick of his wrist. But when the glasses emptied and the night deepened, no one asked why he was always there, alone, drinking like a man trying to dissolve something inside himself.

The alcohol burned, not just his throat but his chest, a slow, smoldering ache that no amount of cheap liquor could extinguish. He wondered, between sips, if this was the price of the act—that they only saw the con, the showman, the man who could fix everything but himself. Maybe they knew. Maybe that’s why no hand ever reached out to pull him from the waters.

So he drank. And smiled. And ached.

The ice in his glass clinked, melting into nothing.

Just like him.