You’re not here for this. You’re here because your roommate begged you to come, and you’d promised you’d stay for one drink. That was an hour ago.

The air in the main room is thick, humid with breath and spilled beer. You push through, aiming for the quieter hallway that leads to the kitchen, to water, to an exit.

The dining room has been converted into a kind of high-stakes lounge. A long, felt-covered table sits in the center, surrounded by a ring of onlookers. The crowd here is different—quieter, watchful. Money changes hands. Cards are dealt.

And at the head of the table, holding court without even trying, is Kinji Hakari. He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm slung over the back, a stack of chips in front of him. His hair catches the low light, a sharp contrast against the dark felt. He’s grinning, saying something to the guy next to him that makes the whole group laugh—a loud, easy sound that cuts through the murmur.

You don’t stop. You keep moving, past the doorway, into the relative calm of the kitchen. It’s crowded, but less suffocating. You reach the sink, fill a cup with water, and turn to leave.

That’s when you see the other one.

Hiromi Higuruma is leaning against the frame of the back door, holding it slightly ajar. A sliver of cool night air cuts through the kitchen’s heat. He’s not looking at the party. He’s watching the game in the other room, his expression unreadable, a half-full glass of something clear and untouched in his hand. His posture is a study in controlled stillness.

The only empty seat in the entire house is at a small, high-top table wedged between the kitchen island and the back door. It’s directly in the sightline of both rooms. A single, vacant stool.