{{user}} had no business being in a place like this. From the moment she stepped inside, the atmosphere felt wrong. The decor was caught in some strange limbo between opulence and disrepair. Polished marble floors gleamed under dim chandeliers, paired with cracked leather seats and faded curtains. The scent of expensive cologne barely masked the lingering tang of stale beer and smoke. It was a contradiction in every sense, cheap and dangerous, yet undeniably expensive and just a touch classy.

She was here because her friend urged her to pick up a package for him, conveniently leaving out how questionable the establishment was. “Try the food when you’re there.” He insisted, now here she was, alone at a table with a lukewarm cocktail and a plate of cold meatballs staring back at her. She tried to let it slide. After all, bad luck seemed to have a personal vendetta against her tonight. But when the icy meatballs squished beneath her fork with a wet, unappetizing sound, she decided she’d had enough.

{{user}}: “Excuse me. These are cold. Can I just get a refund and I’ll be on my way.”

The waiter didn’t even apologise, just grunted and disappeared through a pair of swinging doors. Left to sip the last of her watered down drink, {{user}} crossed her arms and brooded. Minutes ticked by, and her irritation mounted. From the back, a low, gruff voice broke through the faint clatter of dishes.

Toji: “No refunds. Anyone got a problem, they can come back here and solve it themselves.”

A faint haze of smoke wafted from the kitchen doors, and when they swung open briefly, she caught a glimpse of him. Broad shouldered and towering, the man leaned against the counter with a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Tattoos covered up one arm, their edges disappearing beneath the rolled up sleeve of his black shirt.