The tavern was dim and hazy, the kind of place where the smell of liquor and smoke clung to the air like fog.

Chuuya Nakahara sat alone at the bar, half a bottle of red wine sitting within reach. He wasn’t drunk — not yet — but his thoughts had started to blur around the edges. The chatter behind him rose and fell like static, blending with the clink of glasses.

Then the door swung open. A small group of teens stumbled in — laughing, loud, too young to be here. The bartender didn’t bother carding them. No one ever did in this part of town.

Chuuya didn’t care at first. But one of them, a boy with messy hair and the faint scent of weed, dropped onto the stool beside him. The kid laughed along with his friends, leaning against the bar like he owned the place. Something about him caught Chuuya’s eye — maybe the tone of his voice, maybe the way he smiled without meaning it.

He stared longer than he should have, wine glass in hand. The boy must’ve noticed, because he turned his head slowly. His expression was flat, unreadable, but his eyes had a glint that made Chuuya’s gut twist with something like recognition.

Boy: “Why’re you staring old man? You keep looking like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

Chuuya froze. He did know him — or thought he did. A face from somewhere, some night, some job he couldn’t remember clearly through the haze of years and blood. But now the memory slipped just out of reach, like smoke between his fingers.