The set had just ended, and your heartbeat was still caught in your throat. The crowd was loud. The lights were warm and dim. You could feel the pulse of the bass still buzzing through the floorboards and into your veins like a second heartbeat. You'd downed three shots already—maybe four. You weren’t keeping track. It was easier that way. You leaned against the edge of the bar, half-listening to your bassist ramble about some broken amp cable, when your gaze drifted—

—and landed on her.

In the corner. Alone. Back pressed lazily against the booth, one leg tucked under the other. Her phone sat untouched on the table beside a sweating glass of something clear and bitter. Her long black hair fell past her waist like a shadow. Her hood was pushed halfway back, exposing the soft curve of her neck where those Japanese character tattoos still lived—unchanged. Untouched.

For a moment, your breath caught. You blinked. No way. Maybe the alcohol was hitting harder than usual. Maybe the lights were playing tricks on your mind. You turned back to your drink—but you looked again.

It was her.

Ayumi.

The girl you once knew like lyrics in your bones. The girl who used to sit cross-legged on your floor and hum the bassline before it even existed. The girl you shared secrets with. She looked exactly the same, and nothing like how you remembered. Softer in the shadows. Sharper around the edges. The air around her still held that quiet gravity, pulling everything in without ever asking.

She hadn’t seen you yet. Or maybe she had and just didn’t care.