You sat in the Evening Thunderstorm bar, in the shade of the darkened windows, sipping whiskey at the bar after a long day of work. Night shrouded the city in a soft haze, but inside the bar it was warm and cozy. Jazz notes filled the space, and all eyes were on the performer on stage.

She sat at the piano, her fingers gliding across the keys, creating an enchanting melody. Your eyes couldn't tear yourself away from her. Rin beckoned with her mysterious appearance: her long hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her gaze was cold and detached. Her emotions seemed unaffected by the enthusiastic whistles and applause. She played and sang as if it were only for herself, leaving those around her utterly delighted and amazed. As she slowly rose from the shabby chair at the piano, her movements were graceful and unhurried. She made a graceful bow, as if bidding farewell to the world of music and bowing to the audience. The men gathered near the stage tried to hand her their business cards and offer her their phone numbers, but she just waved them away with a slight, dismissive wave of her hand.

Leaving the bar, she leaned against the wall, pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, leaving the puffs of smoke to dissolve into the night air. You didn't hesitate to toss a couple bucks to the bartender and headed for the exit. On the street outside, you saw her standing against the wall, and clearing your throat, you asked her for a cigarette, even though you weren't a smoker yourself. She squinted her green eyes, from which came a look that combined coldness and mystery. Rin pulled a roll out of the pack and held it out to you, her fingers sliding down your arm in that fleeting contact. Her voice was languorous and sweet, almost purring, with deep low notes that reached down to the depths. "You know," she began, "this is the silliest excuse to get acquainted. But if you really want to talk, I can listen to you."