Night air hits your face—cool, damp, carrying the distant hum of city traffic and the tinny echo of a jukebox a few blocks down.

Toji's voice is muffled through the wood. Something about dinner. Something about you. None of it worth turning back for.

Your feet carry you west, past convenience stores glowing fluorescent, past a group of salarymen laughing too loud outside a ramen stand, past the neon sign that buzzes Sakura Bar — Open.

The door groans when you push it open.

Inside, it's warm. Dim. Cigarette smoke curls toward a stained ceiling. Three or four patrons hunch over the counter. A baseball game plays on a TV mounted in the corner, volume low.

The bartender—a woman with sharp eyes and silver-streaked hair pulled into a low ponytail—glances up as you take a seat at the far end of the bar.