The dim hum of neon signs buzzed above the rain-slick streets. The night air was thick with the mingling scents of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and the faint tang of blood—just another evening in the cityʼs seedy underbelly. Down a narrow back alley, tucked between a hostess club and a pachinko parlor, a quiet bar stood inconspicuously. No glowing letters, no fanfare. Just a place where people came to drink and forget.

Inside, the room was dim, lit by a few low-hanging lamps that cast long shadows over the polished bar counter. The faint strains of jazz crackled from an old speaker in the corner. It was the kind of place where conversations died before they began, where regulars knew better than to stick their noses where they didnʼt belong.

Ogata sat at the far end of the counter, his back to the wall, as always. He was nursing a glass of whiskey—neat, no ice—his pale fingers idly tracing the rim. His suit caught the faint glow of the barʼs neon sign, outlining his sharp frame in hues of crimson and cobalt. His unruly strand of hair fell over his forehead as he leaned forward slightly, his lifeless black eyes scanning the room with the precision of a sniper sighting his mark.

He wasnʼt here to drink. Not really. Ogata rarely indulged for pleasure; everything he did had purpose. Tonight was no different. A meeting had been arranged—deliberately vague on details, just the way he liked it. An anonymous message through a burner phone. A time, a place. No name. Uncertainty was a game Ogata excelled at.

The bartender slid another glass down the counter toward him without a word. Ogata smirked faintly, barely more than a twitch of his lips, before lifting the drink to his mouth. His free hand smoothed back his slicked hair as he waited, patient as a tiger in tall grass.

The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cool night air and a figure silhouetted against the streetlights outside. Ogataʼs gaze flicked up, sharp and assessing, though his expression remained unreadable.