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

—I should probably be organising my room.

He sat up on the mattress, hunger aching in his stomach. Boxes void of food force him out of his solitude for the flowing crowds under the orange glow of the streetlights.

Chatter and banter fill the air with whisps of alcohol and roasting spices from the ceremonious amounts of meals and delights offered by the restaurants, stoking the embers of hunger. Delivery drivers bike and jog between the doors and windows to deliver the awaited cuisines. The roads are devoid of motor traffic, transformed into a river of sleepless residents and tourists alike.

A burst of laughter turned his head. Unadulterated and full of heart. Aris found himself following the sound, drawn like a moth to warmth he couldn't feel himself. Through the open doorway, he glimpsed people crowded together, their animated conversations creating a bubble of life that made his own silence feel heavier.

Aris steps back out, reading the sign, "Izakaya," he reads out from the transliterated sign. "I haven't ever been to one," he monologues curiously. “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 and engaging in 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 from the beer taps like dams, it had the faintest hint of alcohol lingering. Instead, it was smoky notes of food being cooked, with aromatic tinges flickering in and out of the smellscape.

—Perhaps this and some company are what I desperately seek right now.

However nice it may sound, that may be a bit demanding.

To the brim with customers, he scrounges for a seat. Aris saw gaps scattered, here and there, but they seemed intentional, reserved for anyone but him. The search felt like sweeping for a spot that wouldn't erupt in a conversation he'd rather never have. He settled 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 replies. Her phone sat face down on the table, occasionally lighting up with messages she didn't check. Whatever she'd been waiting for had already disappointed her.

He hesitates, her tone inviting uncertainty, yet still he takes the seat. Giving the place a final look around, he finds the establishment packed to the brim. With his choices fixed, he finally sat by her with silence lingering between them. This was fine. Two strangers, next to each other, in a crowded izakaya. People did this all the time. It was supposed to feel... like something. That something was the same baseline grey that followed him everywhere.

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.

—That's what I'd come here for. To try.

Although he was secretly hoping she would make the first move.

He glances toward her to see any signs or cues of her approach, but only catches her blank stare, her hands fidgeting with the straw in her drink.

—She's practically begging for someone to rid her of her boredom.

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

The lass turns her head, scanning his face. "Yeah, I suppose," she responds, her exhaustion evident in her tone.

He glanced at her phone, with notifications obscuring the lock screen. "W-were you expecting someone?" His words sounded strained.

She weighs her response. "You could say that…"

"What were you planning on doing, if it he— they you weren't..." he trailed off.

She didn't entertain that half-baked question, letting it hang in the air.

With the forced move, Aris restarts by asking, "So, how've you been?"

"I've been asking myself the same question. How about you?" She asked with feigned disinterest.

"Eh, alright," he shrugged. "Nothing really happened today."

"It sure doesn't sound like it." Her voice is strangely compelling now. She sits up, still slouching from exhaustion.

Aris chuckles bashfully, "It's nothing... really. I just moved to my new apartment, and" he chose his words "didn't have much of a good bye with my parents."

Her eyes light up with curiosity, family drama. "They are family, so hopefully the next time you see each other, it will be water under the bridge."

"...yeah." He looks away, brooding almost.

"So, apartment hunting in Paris?" She leaned in slightly, her earlier rigid posture softening. "If you wanted to move out, why here?"

"For university,” he paused. “For the most part."

"Is that so? Which are you attending?" Her finger traced the rim of her glass absently, eyes staying on his.

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?'

The lady made her demands comfortably. The bartender, complimenting her for her choice, or talking deeper about cocktails or whatever. Aris's attention faded, letting the French conversation wash over him, reducing it to gibberish sounds.

The bartender asks for his order, caught off guard, Aris stammers, trying to construct a response in the lingua franca. "I'll have a water, please."

"So, another glass of lemonade whisky for the madame and a refreshing glass of water for the sir," the waiter confirms. Aris and the woman affirm.

"You know what’s fucked up," she says in Spanish, her voice dropping. “‘Another.’ I’m talking to someone, and he has the audacity to say ‘another.”

"Is that so?" Aris responds naturally.

A shocked gasp forces its way out, forcing her to recompose herself. "Why are you talking in Spanish?”

His eyebrows rise at the drunken question, but he plays along with it, "Well, to flex, obviously."

“Are you making fun of me?” Her voice takes on a menacing edge, "I’m not someone to take lightly, y’know." She leans in close, her breath sweet with whiskey, slipping back to English, “not to toot my own horn, but I got quite the reputation.”

"Does the reputation include not knowing what language you’re speaking?" Aris teases in French.

“…”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

She nudges him, “Get some spunk.” Aris winced at the word. “I can handle a little banter.”

He nods. “So which language do you think in?”

She gives a thoughtful pause, “All of ‘em. It’s how I keep myself from forgetting them. French and English are easy enough to maintain, but it’s been a while since I last spoke Spanish, and I’ve been really slacking on my German.”

“Talk about international.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr Worldwide.”

"Aris, actually." He overacts his pomposity.

"Elise." She raised her glass slightly. "International woman of mystery."

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

"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 English.

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 to end 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.