The bar had the kind of atmosphere that settled into your skin, dim, amber lights glowing like fireflies caught in glass, soft jazz humming under the low rumble of conversation. The air carried the faint mingling of citrus and whiskey, sharpened by the metallic tang of ice clinking in tumblers. A few booths were tucked away in shadow, giving the place an easy kind of intimacy, the sort of spot where strangers could become confidants if the night carried them far enough.

Hizashi Yamada was impossible to miss even here. His presence had a gravity of its own, though it wasn’t the weight of someone brooding. No, his energy crackled like a neon sign against the dimness, sunglasses perched comfortably on his nose despite the low light, blond hair catching every glint from the hanging bulbs. He leaned back against the worn leather of his booth, one long arm draped over the top like he owned the space without ever needing to claim it. His laugh rose above the rest, vibrant.

You slipped through the press of bodies, looking for a place to seat. He noticed you almost immediately. Of course he did, his head lifting, shades tilting slightly as though he wanted to catch your face more clearly.

“Hey!” His voice carried over to you, though softened from its usual booming tone. “Didn’t think I’d run into you in a place like this. C’mon, grab a seat!” He shifted, making space beside him, the leather sighing as he moved. The table bore the casual debris of someone already making himself at home: a half-finished glass of something golden, and a napkin with a doodle in thick pen, jagged lines.