The cascades of darkness surround him, their shadows asserting their judgment, halting any light from gracing the guilty carcass. But Aris couldn't meet their gaze, instead watching the bare ceiling grow darker as the sun submerged under the horizon.

I should probably be organising my room, he thought to himself as he sat up on the mattress, looking at the boxes surrounding him. Right after I eat something, he completes his thought.

Crowds of people ebb and flow under the orange glow of the streetlights. Chatter and banter fill the city's atmosphere with whisps of alcohol and roasting spices from the ceremonious amounts of meals and delights the restaurants offer, stoking the embers of hunger. The delivery drivers bike and jog between the doors and windows for the cuisines awaited elsewhere. The roads are devoid of motor transport, as they are converted into a river of sleepless residents and tourists alike in one of the many pedestrian districts of the city.

The bustling atmosphere kept Aris company, but it came second to his search for unique cuisines. That's when a sign written in unfamiliar characters draws his attention.

"Izakaya," Aris reads out the transliteration part of the sign. "I haven't ever been to one," he curiously monologues. That's the fun of studying abroad—there are many more chances to try new things, so why not check it out?"

He passes through the Noren, spotting dozens of people enjoying their small meals; loud conversations, while others drink silently, winding down from the exhausting workday. The warm lighting and ebony furnishing eased Aris's shoulders. And despite the ocean of booze oozing out of the beer taps like dams, it had the faintest hint of alcohol lingering, in its stead being smoky notes of food being cooked along with aromatic tinges flickering in and out of the smellscape.

Perhaps this and some company are what I desperately seek right now. He gives himself a self-deprecating chuckle at his thought. However nice it may sound, that may be a bit demanding.

Thronging with customers left and right, Aris scrounges for a seat before settling for a free seat next to a honey-blonde lass. While approaching the seat, his eyes capture the lights reflecting and gracing different segments of her skin: polished, rosy, smooth skin like the petals of cherry blossom flowers, on which the light danced so effortlessly as she moved in place. Of course, Aris Strider was intrepidly insolent enough to ask her if he could sit by her.

"Yeah, sure", she reluctantly replies.

He hesitates, her tone inviting uncertainty. As he grabs the chair, he looks around and finds the establishment is packed to the brim. He finally sits after much deliberation (as much as only one free seat would allow). A silence lingers between them. Aris could've spent the night without saying a word, but the weight of the ocean of conversations brought a sense of obligation to try at least.

But maybe she'll be the one to start the conversation, he justifies putting off the conversation. He glances toward her to see any signs or cues of her approach. Her eyes gaze at nothing, her hands fidgeting with the straw in her drink. She's practically begging for someone to rid her of her boredom, he deduced that only after she lies on the counter with her shoulders drooping. Maybe she got stood up by someone? Aris assumed. His anxiety continues to stir, before he catches himself in the spiral.

 "Slow day, eh?" Aris asks, following with a sigh.

"Huh?" She turns her head, scanning his face to assure herself she is being addressed, the stranger sitting next to her. "Yeah, I suppose," she responds, her exhaustion evident in her tone.

"W-were you expecting someone?"

"You could say that…" she cautiously replies.

Aris presses her with another question, but is met with no reply.

Moments of pause later, he asks if she's okay.

"I've been asking myself the same question. How about you, are you okay?" Her bored tone betrays her interest.

"Ah, it was alright, I think. It was a nothing kind of day," he answered her uncertainly.

"It sure doesn't sound like it. Your girlfriend broke up with you?" Her voice is strangely compelling now. She sits up, still slouching from exhaustion, but now more attentive to the conversation, ready to listen. She'd make a great therapist, if not already.

Aris chuckles bashfully, "It's nothing like that. I just moved to my new apartment, and my parents and I didn't leave it on the best of terms."

Her eyes light up with curiosity. "Apartment hunting in Paris?" surprise evident. "If you wanted to move out, why here?"

 "It's also where I go to university."

"Is that so? Which one are you attending?"

As the conversation progressed, the waves of noise seemed to quiet down, and the only voices heard were each other's. Hunger and thirst took a back seat as her inquiries and fascination filled him with company.

"...vous sers?" another voice intrudes. Aris stares blankly, his French rudimentary. The waiter repeats himself, enunciating, "Qu'est-ce que je vous sers?"

Aris mentally translates it: 'What can I serve you?'

"A whiskey lemonade will do me nicely", she demands comfortably, patent that it was not her first time here.

"Bold choice, looking to keep the night's spark alive?" the bartender responds, treading the fine line between professional and personable.

Aris lets the French conversation wash over him, reducing it to gibberish sounds. The conversation is short-lived before the bartender asks for his order. Aris stammers, trying to construct a response in the lingua franca. "I'll have a water, please."

"So a revitalising glass of lemonade whisky for the fine madame and a refreshing glass of water to get the man started, "the waiter confirms. Aris and the woman affirm.

"Please tell me you know a third language," she says, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as she watches the bartender serve others.

"Will this do?" Aris replies, confident in his Spanish.

Her shock is palpable. "Mr Worldwide," she mutters, then continues, "Would it be better to resume like this? The bartender is... off-putting."

"I didn't realise, what about him is off?"

"His eyes, they're insatiable. He doesn't seem like the type to be a bartender because he enjoys the bar tending part of the job, if you know what I'm getting at."

"I see." Understanding dawns on him.

Her voice takes on a vulnerable edge: "I'd feel safer if someone who's somewhat decent would look out for me, if you're okay with that." Her tone was timid.

"I wouldn't mind being a help to you," Aris obliges.

"I'm Elise, by the way", Elise informs him of her name.

The bartender places down their drinks and winks, "Enjoy!" he exclaims.

Aris notices the man's lingering gaze, fixed squarely on her. The bartender notices he's being watched; tension hangs momentarily before he resumes his duties.

"So, why did you choose to study here, of all places? Pretty sure New York or somewhere in the Rhine would be much better places." Elise resumes the prior conversation in its original tongue.

Aris takes a sip of water, recapturing his train of thought. "I was thinking of somewhere like the Rhine, more so Berlin to be honest, but I wasn't going to get my way with my parents."

"Then how did you land in Paris?"

"It was a take-it-or-leave-it kind of offer," he said, recollecting those moments that dulled his sense of excitement. "But honestly, I lost no matter what I chose, so why not get a bit of distance and draw myself a silver lining?" Aris tries ending it on an upbeat note.

"Sounds like a total drag having to deal with such a circumstance," she responds nonchalantly. Despite that, it's admirable that you found a way to carve out your own path forward. Hopefully it's just the start."

"Thanks," he says with a bashful grin. "How about you, though? What brought you here?"

"I've been here so long I think I've forgotten at some point what brought me here," she lied before continuing truthfully, "but now I'm just attending uni to become a fully qualified detective. None of that P.I. business that anyone can get." Elise takes a large gulp of her drink. As she prepares to begin her rant, a burning sensation travels down her throat. "Y'know, I feel the current private investigator system only exists as a way for the policing and justice sectors to be corrupt. Like they can just have anybody become one in a matter of weeks and months, and "find" whatever evidence is convenient to them."

"Wow, that's news to me."

"You only really notice if you look into the backgrounds of cases where the private investigators are cited, if ever. And even if they are cited, barely anyone checks in the first place." Elise chugs the rest of her drink in a fury. Aris's face twitches in concern. "I swear if it's the last thing I do, I'll end the corruption these institutes have created from the goodwill of the predecessors."

"With how you say it, I find it hard to believe there's any goodwill in this."

"It wasn't meant to go on for as long as it did. It should've ended with the Civil War."

"It goes back that far?"

"40 or 50 years ago isn't that farhic—" she pauses as a hiccup cuts through her sentence. "Sorry, about that", another hiccup erupting, "sorry again, as I was saying, it's almost as old as our parents."

As the night progressed, their conversation meandered like a river—sometimes smooth, sometimes choppy. Elise's whiskey lemonades accumulated, each drink leaving an increasing mark on her speech, while Aris maintained a careful equilibrium with his non-alcoholic selections. Occasional hiccups erupted from her, adding an unpredictable percussion to their emerging narrative.