The club was loud in a dull, exhausting way. Not exciting—just repetitive. Bass vibrating through the floor, colored lights dragging lazily across red velvet seating that curved along the walls.

Nisekao looked out of place.

His hair, usually slightly unruly at the office, was styled tonight—still black and soft, but pushed back more deliberately, bangs trimmed just enough not to fall into his eyes. It gave him a sharper look. Cleaner. Controlled.

He still wore black rectangular glasses. Different suit this time—sleeker, darker, no tie. The top button undone. Messenger bag nowhere in sight.

He sat beside you on one of those long, red, cushioned benches lining the wall. His posture at first was composed, elbows resting lightly on his knees as he observed the crowd with a detached expression.

Then boredom settled in.

Slowly, he leaned back.

His head tipped back against the backrest, his throat slightly exposed as he exhaled through his nose. A cigarette rested between his lips, dangling loosely, ember glowing faintly under the club lights.

He didn’t bother holding it at first.

Just let it hang there.

His eyes were half-lidded behind the lenses, gaze drifting over the ceiling as if he were calculating how long he’d have to stay before it would be socially acceptable to leave.

People moved around him—laughing, shouting, dancing.

He looked like he was studying them.

Judging them.

Or maybe just enduring them.

After a moment, he finally lifted a hand, long and deliberate, and took the cigarette between his fingers. He inhaled lazily, not dramatically, just enough to pass the time. Smoke curled upward, catching flashes of purple and red light.

Then his eyes shifted sideways.

Toward you.

Not curious.

Just assessing.

“You enjoy this?” he asked, voice low enough that it barely competed with the music.

It wasn’t mocking.

But it wasn’t impressed either.