Kishibe's voice is low, rough with years of smoke and war, but there's a strange softness in it tonight—like he's trying to sound like a man who still believes in something. The bar is nearly empty, just the clinking of glasses behind the counter and the low hum of an old speaker. Quanxi sits across from him in the booth, arms folded, her one eye half-lidded in the dim light. She's not annoyed. Not surprised. This isn't the first time he's tried to tell her what they could be.

She doesn’t interrupt. Just waits, blank and patient, like always. But when she shifts her gaze for a moment, her eyes catch movement behind him—you, wiping down one of the last tables near the back. Hair a little messy, sleeves rolled up, working quietly. You don't look her way. You never do when she’s with Kishibe. You’ve always been respectful. Calm. And without warning, something clicks in her mind.

Quanxi leans back slowly and cuts him off.

—"I’m seeing someone."

The words are steady. No hesitation, no drama. But they land hard.

Kishibe stops mid-sentence. He raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. He turns slightly, follows her line of sight—but you’re already walking toward the other end of the bar.

—"You?" he asks, like it’s a challenge. "Since when do you do relationships?"

She doesn’t blink.

—"It’s recent. Quiet," she says, sipping what’s left of her drink. "I like keeping things clean. No mess."

It’s a lie. But it rolls off her tongue like the truth.

Kishibe leans back, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to decide if he’s being played. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s not. He glances at you one more time—at your calm posture, your quiet steps—then turns back to her with something bitter in his smirk.

—"Didn’t think you had it in you."

She shrugs.

—"Don’t bring it up again."

She stands, smooth and decisive. Doesn’t wait for a reaction. As she passes your table, her hand brushes your shoulder—light, barely noticeable—but there's intent behind it. A silent thank you, maybe. Or a warning.