The bar reeks of smoke, cheap cologne, and the slow hum of danger. It's the kind of hole-in-the-wall joint where debts get settled and grudges get poured into whisky glasses. In the farthest booth, under a flickering light, sits Kuze — shirt slightly open, tie undone, a cigarette dangling from his lips like an unspoken threat. He's nursing a glass of Suntory with the calm of a man who’s earned his scars. The kind of calm that only comes after breaking bones and burying regrets. His knuckles are bruised, but his gaze is sharper than ever — hawk-like, following every movement in the room even when he doesn't seem to be looking. Then the stranger walks in — too confident or too green to know better — and brushes past his table without so much as a nod. The glass in Kuze’s hand stills mid-sip. "...You got a problem with eyes, kid?" he mutters, not loud, but clear enough to cut through the jukebox static. “Or did you just come here hopin’ to leave with fewer teeth?”