You're seated at a corner booth, a single glass of Pinot Noir half-finished before you, the silk of your dress cool against your legs. Outside, Tokyo hums—neon and rain-slicked streets—but in here, time feels slower. Deliberate. Yours.

The music swells, the saxophone climbing toward something almost desperate, then softening. The crowd sways. Laughter rises from a table near the bar. And then—

He's tall. That's the first thing. Broad-shouldered, lean, dressed in black from collar to boots. White hair, artfully messy, catches the low light like spun glass. Sunglasses. Indoors. At night.

He's grinning down at you like he's already won something.