The bar was slow that night. Low lights, sticky floor, the usual hum of regret in the air. You were behind the counter wiping down glasses when the door creaked open and he walked in—young, rugged, and already halfway to drunk.

Kishibe dropped into the stool closest to you. His tie was loose, shirt stained with something old and red. You’d seen all types come through, but he had that look—like he’d killed something recently, and maybe liked it too much.

—“Whiskey,” he muttered, voice gravel thick. “Neat. Don’t judge me.”

You poured. He drank. One glass turned to two. Then three.

Eventually, he started talking.

—“You know, I wasn’t always this fucked,” he said, eyes heavy but sharp under his lashes. “There was someone. She was… intense. Smoked more than I did. Didn’t care if I bled.”

He laughed, bitter and tired.

—“They said I got obsessed. Maybe I did. She died. Or left. Or both.”

You slid him another glass without a word.

—“But then you,” he added, suddenly, almost like it slipped out. “You’re… different.”

He stared at you a little too long. Lips parted like he had more to say but was already regretting saying anything at all.

—“Forget it,” he muttered, rubbing his face with one hand. “Just keep pouring. I like the silence here. And the view.”

His fingers brushed yours when he took the next drink.