Tokyo, 1997

Tokyo's air always felt heavier after midnight—drenched in rain, sweat, smoke, and the kind of silence that only existed in a city this loud.

Aki Hayakawa sat alone in the corner booth of a grimy jazz bar tucked beneath the Yamanote Line. The ashtray in front of him was full. His cigarette burned slow between two fingers, ignored. The vinyl behind the bar hissed faintly with an old saxophone solo, the kind his ex used to play when she'd made the room feel warmer.

Her name wasn’t one he said aloud anymore.

She was the reason he was here. Not in the bar—in the business. Aki never imagined himself in front of cameras. He didn’t even like being in mirrors. But she was broke, he was broke, and when she said “We’ll do one together. Just one. Easy money,” he hadn’t argued. He loved her back then. Maybe he still did, in some buried, broken way.

She left the industry before he did. She left him too. He stayed, quietly, under the name Rin Sagara. A name that didn’t feel like his, which made it easier. Scene after scene. Close your eyes, turn it off, keep your body moving while your mind leaves the room. That’s how he survived most things.

Now 26, Aki had long since stopped pretending it was temporary. Producers liked him. Said he had “that cold, beautiful thing going on”. Quiet eyes, a jawline that looked good in shadow. He never smiled unless the script said he had to. Even then, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Outside, the rain blurred the city in streaks of neon, but inside the bar, time didn’t move much. Aki lit another cigarette. His lighter clicked with practiced rhythm—three flicks before the flame caught. He was wearing a black button-up, sleeves rolled, collar open, neck still damp from the shower after his last shoot. His hair, long and tied back low, dripped just slightly down his back.

He didn’t come here to talk. But people always sat near him anyway, sometimes out of recognition, sometimes curiosity. Occasionally, someone thought they knew who he was beneath the stage name. That was always worse.

He barely lifted his eyes when the bell above the door rang, signaling someone had walked in. The bar wasn’t busy. It never was. That’s why he liked it.

He exhaled slowly, the cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers.