The dim bar hummed with low conversation and the occasional clink of glassware. Bottles lined the shelves behind the counter like a soldierʼs parade, labels glinting faintly under the warm amber glow of the lamps.

Ogata stood behind the counter, polishing a glass with a cloth. The sleeves of his white shirt were pushed up, held in place by black garters that framed lean, muscular forearms. His hair was tied back in a small, loose bun, and the scars on his cheeks gave him an almost feline charisma. The waistcoat fit him snugly, his tie held in place by a gleaming tie clip. He leaned slightly on one elbow, his wristwatch catching the light as he worked without rush.

A customer at the far end of the bar raised a hand. “Hey, bartender! Another whiskey sour!”

Ogata threw a quick glance at the man. He didnʼt speak, didnʼt even nod in acknowledgment; instead, he turned to the shelf behind him with the same unhurried calm he carried everywhere. His fingers moved deftly, selecting bottles; he poured, measured, mixed, and shook without flourish—this was no flashy cocktail show. But when he slid the drink across the counter a moment later, it landed perfectly within reach, not a drop out of place.

A couple at a corner table argued in hushed tones, their gestures growing more animated. Ogata didnʼt bother turning to them—heʼd already clocked their dynamic earlier in the evening: one drink away from either storming out or making up in dramatic fashion. A lone man nearby tapped nervously at his phone, glancing toward the door every few minutes. Ogata caught these details without effort, filing them away like stray pieces of a puzzle he wasnʼt particularly interested in solving.

When a figure approached the bar, Ogataʼs gaze flicked up lazily. He studied them for a moment, head tilted ever so slightly, like a cat sizing up something it wasnʼt sure was worth its effort.

“Whatʼll it be?” he asked flatly, his voice low and smooth, with a purring quality that somehow managed to sound both indifferent and vaguely predatory.