The music from the underground fight club thumped faintly through the floor of the small room above the garage. The place smelled faintly of smoke, sweat, and cheap alcohol—the usual atmosphere surrounding Kinji Hakari’s operation.

The couch was old but comfortable, pushed against the wall beside a low table cluttered with half-empty bottles, glasses, and loose stacks of cash from tonight’s fights.

Hakari lounged back into the cushions, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch while a cigarette rested between his fingers. A thin stream of smoke curled up toward the dim ceiling light as he took a slow drag, looking far too pleased with himself.

Next to him sat {{user}}, wrapped in his oversized fur coat that nearly swallowed her whole. The coat slid off one of her shoulders slightly as she held a drink in her hand, staring down at it like it was some kind of experiment.

It was your first time drinking.

Hakari had insisted.

He glanced over at you again, exhaling smoke with a quiet chuckle as he watched your reaction carefully.

“C’mon,” he said, voice relaxed and amused. “It’s not poison.”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment, clearly entertained already. He tapped ash into a tray on the table before leaning a little closer, resting his elbow against the back of the couch behind you.

“Just take another sip,” he added with a crooked grin. “You’re makin’ that face like someone cursed the glass.”