The wind smelled of cold stone and wet asphalt.

Twenty meters below, Toyama was wasting electricity. Store signs blinking for no one. Streetlamps pooling yellow light onto empty sidewalks. Rows of windows glowing with the quiet, stupid warmth of ordinary people ending their ordinary days. She could see them through the glass - shadows moving in kitchens, hands pulling curtains, heads bending over phones.

None of them looked up. They never did.

She stood at the edge of the roof with her hands buried deep in the pockets of her trench coat, the fabric snapping behind her like something alive. Her hair lashed her face, but she didn't bother pushing it back. She was too busy watching the city, a faint sneer tugging at the corner of her mouth.

All that bustle. All those lives. All those dreams about to fall asleep, warm and safe, tucked behind those windows.

It was almost indecent. Almost insulting.

A delicious superfluity.

She stretched, arms reaching for the sky, spine arching like a satisfied cat, and let out a low, contented sigh. 

"Long live capitalism, damn it."

Then her gaze caught on something in the street below, and the sneer sharpened into a grin. A predator's grin. All teeth. No warmth.

She dropped into a crouch on the edge of the roof, fingers curling around the cold concrete.

"Hehe… Hunt's on."

The air at street level smelled different. Frying oil. Spilled beer. The faint, sour tang of a garbage bin that should've been emptied yesterday.

Where the girl on the roof had seen a delicious superfluity, Ezume saw a source of moderate, manageable stress. The bar's neon sign - Yoru no Kōbō - flickered weakly above the door, spitting a tired pink glow onto the sidewalk.

He checked the address on his phone for the third time. Not because he was socially anxious. Well, not only that. He had a theory, carefully researched across three separate forums, that meeting points could shift their GPS coordinates without warning. A little cosmic mischief. The universe adjusting its settings. His newest mapping app claimed to counteract the phenomenon.

Tonight, apparently, the universe was feeling cooperative.

He pocketed his phone and tugged absently at the hem of his hoodie. The gray cargo pants were worn soft at the knees. The blue zip-up was a size too big. Underneath, his green t-shirt read « UFOs are REAL » in peeling white letters - a statement of principle more than a fashion choice. Three omamori hung from his belt. One for luck. One for protection. One for road safety. Sato had been making fun of the third one for years.

Sato. He'd picked this place. A bar. Because he'd just turned eighteen and wanted to celebrate by ordering something perfectly useless and expensive.

Ezume sighed. He just had to push the door. Sit down. Order a soda. Not look toward the back of the room - the back of the room was always where the shadows got thicker. Avoid leaning against mirrors. Discreetly check the bartender's forearms for suspicious tattoos.

He touched the protection omamori, just in case.

"It's just a café," he murmured. "Nobody judges a minor for walking into a café. Even at night, on a Friday."

He breathed in. He breathed out.

He pushed the door open.

The inside of Yoru no Kōbō was exactly what he'd feared: dark, but not quite dark enough. Soft lamps threw lazy shadows across brick walls. Old Japanese jazz drifted from a speaker that sounded like it hadn't been replaced since the eighties. A few customers sat scattered at the tables, but the room was far from full.

Sato spotted him immediately. He was already on his feet, arms stretched wide like he was welcoming a brother back from war.

"EZUME ! Over here, man !"

He was wearing ripped jeans and a black long-sleeve t-shirt, slightly too big. Nothing calculated. Just a guy who dressed in the dark and didn't care. His hair — a shade of red that bordered on rust — was pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few stray strands escaping across his forehead.

"Sit down, sit down ! Look at this place. I ordered a cocktail. A REAL one. With alcohol in it. Because I'm eighteen."

Ezume slid into the seat across from him, but not before checking the bartender's neck for pentagrams. "You're gonna bring that up all night, aren't you."

"All night, yes."

"Great."

Sato laughed, loud and easy, and that's when Ezume noticed Mizuki.

She was wedged into the chair beside Sato, hunched forward like she was trying to disappear into the wallpaper. Her outfit was a careful arrangement of contradictions - a cream cardigan cut too well, a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a navy blue pleated skirt that fell precisely at her knees. No visible brands. Everything good quality. The kind of clothes a girl wears when she's trying to be invisible, and fails because the clothes are too perfect to ignore.

Her long black hair hung straight and glossy to the middle of her back. Her pale blue eyes swept the room with poorly concealed anxiety.

"Mizuki, breathe," Sato said, without even looking at her. "Nobody's gonna report you to the disciplinary committee."

She flushed, which only made her more visible. "It's not the disciplinary committee I'm worried about. It's my mother. She knows everyone in this town. If someone runs into her and tells her they saw me in a bar-"

"A cocktail bar," Sato corrected. "It's classier."

The look she gave him could have killed a less immune man.

"I shouldn't be here."

"Nobody should be here," Ezume said, reaching for the menu. "That's why we're here."

Mizuki rolled her eyes, but she didn't leave.

Sato drained half his glass in one go, smacked his lips, and grinned like he'd just won something.

"Alright, listen. I'm gonna order two more drinks for myself, and I'll slip them to you on the sly." He pointed at Ezume, then at Mizuki. "Come on. We're celebrating."

Mizuki made a sound like she'd swallowed her own tongue.

"Are you serious ? Sato, turning eighteen doesn't make you legal to drink. You're eighteen, not twenty."

"Relax. They're cool about it here."

"Cool about it ?" She stared at him. "This is a cocktail bar, not a grocery store. We're not buying chewing gum."

"Same thing."

"It's absolutely not the same thing."

Sato set his glass down and raised both hands in temporary surrender. "Okay, okay. Breathe. I just wanted to toast with you guys. Something nice. We're not gonna make it a federal case."

Ezume, who hadn't said anything, reached instinctively for the luck omamori at his belt. "What's your cocktail, anyway ?"

"A blue thing. With a little umbrella."

Ezume blinked. "You ordered a blue thing with a little umbrella to celebrate your coming of age."

"Absolutely."

"Okay..."

Mizuki buried her face in her hands. "I'm in a bar, with two idiots, and one of them is going to get us arrested. My mother is going to kill me."

"Your mother will never know," Sato said. "Neither will the cops. Take a sip. Relax."

"I can't."

"Why not ?"

"Because if I drink, I'll turn all red, and everyone will see I'm red, and someone will figure out I've been drinking, and-"

"Mizuki." Sato leaned toward her, his expression shifting into something almost serious. "You're already all red."

Mizuki opened her mouth, closed it, and made a small, strangled noise.

Sato burst out laughing and waved the waiter over.

"Admit it, Sato."

Ezume hadn't touched his menu. He was watching his friend with that quiet, steady look he usually reserved for forum posts he thought were genius.

"You're hoping it'll help you sleep, aren't you."

Sato raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. "What?"

"The alcohol. You've never drunk before. You don't know how your body's gonna react. You're hoping it'll knock you out."

Mizuki set down her unopened menu with a sharp little click. "It's irresponsible."

"Ah, there it is," Sato said. "The ethics committee."

"Alcohol won't cure your insomnia, Sato. It's medically absurd. And on top of that, you're leaving Hana all alone at home."

Sato's glass hit the table a little too hard. A single drop of blue cocktail slid down the side.

"For God's sake, screw you. Hana is eleven. She can handle herself. She's got her phone, her homework, her curry rice in the fridge. I even left her a sticky note."

Mizuki crossed her arms. "A sticky note."

"With a smiley face."

"A smiley face."

"She's an independent kid. Takes after me."

Ezume exchanged a look with Mizuki, then turned back to Sato. "You left your little sister a sticky note telling her you were going to a bar."

Sato opened his mouth. Closed it. Scratched the back of his head. His ponytail wobbled.

"...Okay. When you put it like that, it's not great."

Mizuki rolled her eyes, but she wasn't really angry. Worried, mostly. She was always worried.

Sato turned back to him, and the smile slipped a little. Not all the way - Sato's smile never disappeared all the way - but enough that the real exhaustion showed through, gathered in the tired lines around his eyes. He lowered his voice.

"But deep down, you're right."

He swirled his glass, watching the blue liquid slide against the sides.

"It'd be nice. If it could cure me."

Ezume didn't answer right away. He'd known Sato since elementary school. He knew he never slept more than three hours a night. He knew the dark circles under his eyes weren't some cool, jaded affectation - they were real wear, built up year after year. He knew Hana wasn't just his little sister. She was the only person Sato got out of bed for, on those mornings when he wasn't even sure he'd slept at all.

"Alcohol doesn't cure anything," Mizuki said quietly. Her voice had lost its edge. "I'm not trying to lecture you. It's just... true."

"I know," Sato said. "But I'm eighteen. I can try."

He raised his glass.

"To experimental medicine."

Mizuki shook her head, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're impossible."

"I'm of age. It's different."