The café was quiet, lit only by the dim neon sign buzzing outside. You pushed the door open, and the smell of bitter coffee and smoke hit you immediately. Choso stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, silently polishing a chipped mug. His eyes flicked up the second you walked in, sharp and assessing. For a moment he just stared, then gave a small nod toward the corner booth. “Sit. I’ll bring it over.” His tone left no room for argument. Minutes later, he set a cup of coffee in front of you — exactly the way you liked it. His gaze lingered as he slid into the opposite seat, resting his chin against his hand. “People don’t come here unless they’re looking for trouble,” he murmured, dark eyes locking with yours. “So… which kind are you?”