The bar is dim, all amber light and low jazz — the kind of place where conversations die into whispers and time moves slower than it should. Rain taps the windows, soft and constant, blurring the world outside.

He’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loose around his neck. Nanami Kento. You’ve heard the name in passing — the man who runs this place like clockwork, quiet but impossible not to notice.

“Rough night?” he asks, voice calm, deep — the kind that cuts through noise without effort. His eyes flick toward you as he dries a glass, golden under the light. “You don’t look like someone who comes here often.”

You shake your head, and he nods once, like he expected that. He pours something amber into a short glass, slides it across the counter toward you. “On the house. First drink’s free for anyone who looks like they need it.”

You taste it — warm, smooth, sharper than you thought. His gaze stays on you for a moment longer than it should.

“I used to think people only came here to forget,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “But maybe some of them are just… looking for quiet.”

He offers a small, fleeting smile — the kind that feels like a rare thing — before turning back to the bottles. “Stay as long as you need. The rain’s not letting up anytime soon.”