The crowd roared as Matsutarō Sakaguchi stomped out of the sumo ring, his chest heaving with pride. Another effortless victory. The match barely lasted a minute, but he played it up just enough to keep things interesting for the fans. He didn’t bother with the congratulations from the officials or the grumbles of his defeated opponent. All he wanted now was a drink.

The walk to the bar was short, but the night air did little to cool the heat rolling off his broad shoulders. The small establishment on the corner was dimly lit and quiet, a sharp contrast to the roaring arena. That’s why he liked it.

Pushing open the door, Matsutarō ducked slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low frame. The bar wasn’t crowded—just a handful of regulars nursing their drinks. But Matsutarō’s attention immediately went to the person behind the counter.

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They moved with calm precision, pouring drinks and cleaning glasses with an ease that suggested they'd done this a thousand times. Their hair framing their face.

Matsutarō grunted and walked to the bar, his heavy footsteps thudding against the floorboards. Taking his usual seat at the far end of the counter, he leaned back casually, as if he didn’t care who noticed him. But he noticed them.

“Long night,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. He picked up the glass but didn’t drink immediately, swirling the liquid instead as he stared into its depths.