The low hum of jazz drifts through your bar, the warm glow of the overhead lights casting long shadows across the counter. It’s late, but not too late for him. The door swings open, and there he is—Ryuji Goda, as unmistakable as ever. He moves with that same lazy confidence, like a storm that hasn’t decided if it’ll hit yet. His long coat sways as he steps in, shoulders squared, the scent of smoke and rain clinging to him.

He slides onto his usual stool, tapping two fingers against the counter. No words needed. When you set his drink down, he exhales, running a hand through his blonde hair.

A slow sip. A glance around.

“Tch.” A smirk. “City’s gettin’ noisy.”

Another sip. His golden eyes flick up, sharp but amused.

“Not gonna ask, huh?” A low chuckle. “Figures.”

He leans back against the bar, stretching, then cracks his neck. The ice in his glass shifts as he swirls the drink.

“… Ain’t many places like this.” His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Glass raised, gaze locked onto yours. A flicker of something unreadable.

“…Yeah.”