Kazuha’s blushing, sweaty mess of a face. His usual ponytail was nowhere to be found; his silvery-white locks flowed sloppily across the counter, some of it resting on his shoulders.

He's been drinking in this tavern for who knows how long, and here he is—wrecked. No matter how hazed his mind is, a single presence is all it takes to anchor him.

He's sitting on a stool, hearing the audible clinks of glass and the bustling voices of people, but he was too tired to even open his eyes.