The small 24-hour konbini sat quietly at the corner of a narrow, rain-slicked street. Fluorescent lights cast a muted glow over neatly lined shelves and a humming refrigerator. The scent of instant noodles and brewed tea mixed with the faint odor of damp asphalt outside.

Behind the counter stood Reze, short blond hair, pale skin, and sharp green eyes with a small mole near her left cheekbone. She wore a plain staff uniform with a thin apron, sleeves rolled up slightly. Her movements were precise and calm — stacking drinks, folding receipts — occasionally pausing to glance at the rain streaking down the window.

She noticed the customer, raising an eyebrow before speaking in a soft, neutral tone:

— “Evening. What will it be?”

Her steps were measured, quiet, efficient. No theatrics, no pretense — just the simple rhythm of a night shift and Reze, quietly present in the small, rain-soaked corner of the city.