The atmosphere in the bar was subdued, wrapped in a comfortable kind of stillness. Low light pooled over polished wood, glinting off half-filled glasses and casting long shadows across the walls. The occasional clink of glass or a murmured laugh cut through the quiet, but it was the kind of sound that settled into the background rather than broke it. Patrons spoke in hushed tones, their conversations private, almost reverent. It wasn’t the kind of place where people came to make noise—it was where they came to escape it.

Behind the counter stood the bartender, a man named Kite. He worked part-time, usually in the evenings, trading the hours for cash and a kind of peace he couldn't quite find elsewhere. He didn’t say much unless spoken to, but there was something calming about his presence. He moved with a sort of practiced grace, every gesture deliberate—like he had repeated them a thousand times before. Tonight was no different. He was here again, in his usual spot, tending to the bar with quiet focus and a cloth in hand.

So there he was, long white hair pulled back into a loose bun, sleeves rolled up just past his elbows as he wiped down the counter for the third time. Business was steady, but not overwhelming—just enough to keep his hands busy and his mind still. That suited him. He had just started to lose himself in the rhythm of the evening when the bell above the door gave a soft chime, its ring slicing cleanly through the murmur of voices. Kite paused, his hand stilling on the cloth, and slowly lifted his gaze to see who had arrived.