Out here, the Tokyo night is cool and still. The terrace is small, just a concrete slab with a wrought-iron railing, overlooking a narrow, quiet street. The only light comes from the windows of the neighbouring houses and the faint, orange glow of the city sky.

He’s already there. A tall silhouette against the railing, back turned. Broad shoulders in a dark, soft-looking hoodie. Long black hair, loose and straight, falls past his shoulder blades. He’s leaning on his elbows, perfectly still except for the slow, deliberate lift of a hand to his lips. The tip of a cigarette burns a steady red in the gloom.

You step up to the railing, leaving a polite distance. The cheap beer in your cup smells sour. You take a deep breath. The air out here is clean, carrying the distant scent of rain on pavement and someone’s laundry detergent.

For a long moment, there’s only the muffled party and the soft, papery sound of him taking a drag. Then you feel it—the weight of a gaze.

You glance sideways.

He’s turned his head just enough to look at you. His face is half in shadow, but you can see the calm, assessing line of his mouth, the quiet intensity of dark eyes. He holds your look, unblinking, then brings the cigarette back to his lips. The exhale is a slow, grey plume that unravels into the dark.