The bar was tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a ramen shop with a glowing red lantern out front. From the outside, it didn't look like much—just a narrow black door, no signage, no line, the kind of place you'd walk past without thinking twice. But once Michiko stepped inside, it was clear Fumi hadn't oversold it.
Low lighting bathed the space in a kind of muted intimacy. Neon strips framed the back wall like a soft heartbeat pulsing through the haze. There was no pounding music—just soft, ambient loops from hidden speakers, the kind that made you want to lean closer to be heard. The tables were pressed close enough to create energy, but spaced with just enough room to pretend you had privacy. Warm glass shimmered in every hand, casting pools of rose across tabletops.
Michiko hesitated a beat inside the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the dark, her senses sharpening. The bar had a certain atmosphere. Texture. It was grungy, yes—but curated. Like a place designed for secrets.
Fumi leaned in, her breath skimming Michiko's ear. "Nice, right?"
Michiko didn't answer immediately. Her eyes swept the room, cataloging. A girl with a leather harness over a silk blouse. A guy with glitter on his cheekbones and chipped red polish on his nails. A couple sharing a cigarette in the far booth, their knees touching beneath the table. She exhaled softly.
"A little grungy," she said finally. "But not bad."
Fumi grinned, clearly pleased with herself. "It's early," she said, already tugging Michiko along by the wrist. "Let's grab a table before the pretty people show up."
They found one in the back corner—half-lit, tucked beneath a low-hanging light fixture that flickered occasionally. Private. Perfect for watching without being watched. Fumi immediately flagged down the waitress and ordered for both of them, her smile sugar-slick and practiced. Michiko rested her chin in her palm, pretending not to be scanning the room.
It was an odd mix of bodies. Tight skirts, oversized jackets, mesh shirts layered over bare chests. Glitter where it didn't belong, fishnets on legs that could break hearts. Dark lipstick on men. Collarbone tattoos on women. It was the kind of place Michiko should've hated—loud in its ambiguity, blurred in its boundaries, crawling with people who didn't fit into neat little boxes.
But she didn't hate it.
It reminded her of something. The feeling you got standing on the edge of a rooftop at night—high enough to see the city lights, low enough to hear your own breath. That delicate balance between thrill and fear.
Her eyes stopped on someone behind the bar.
At first, she dismissed the figure as just another pretty bartender. Taller than the average woman, with shoulders squared and a posture so precise it seemed choreographed. She wore a simple black shirt that hugged her frame, accentuating the long line of her neck. Her hair fell in a neat, neck-length cut, each dark strand catching the overhead glow like burnished metal before curling gently at the ends. There was an elegance to the way she tilted her head, as though every movement had been practiced in front of a mirror. Her lips, dusted in a glossy sheen, parted only to answer a question or flash a tight, polite smile. Dark purple polish encircled the bottle she held, matching the color of her fingertips as she poured slowly, then reached for a damp cloth to wipe the counter with measured precision.
Something about her rhythm stopped Michiko's breath, though not in the way a stranger's beauty might. It felt quieter, charged, as if she were part flame, part ice. A subtle tension in her arms, a slight arch of her brow, suggested she knew she was being watched—and didn't care. Michiko felt a small thrill of curiosity. This person was disarming, exotic; as though someone had taken traditional signs of masculinity and femininity, shuffled them, and reassembled them into something that both fit and unsettled at once.
Unbeknownst to Michiko, the bartender had noticed her in return. They caught the corner of Michiko's figure reflected in the polished chrome of the taps, registering the taut line of her spine, the steady stillness she maintained despite the bar's restless energy. Most patrons came to be seen; this one sat back, arms folded, eyes quietly observing.
Intriguing.
"Someone caught your eye?" Fumi's voice interrupted Michiko's reverie. She leaned in from the next stool, her own glass warmed by her hand.
Michiko turned, her focus never wavering from the bartender's silhouette. "The bartender," she said slowly. Then she paused, doubt flickering. "Or maybe they're a manager. You can tell by the way they move—like they run the place."
Fumi squinted, raising an eyebrow. "That one?"
Michiko inclined her head toward the back of the bar. "She's hot."
Fumi blinked once, twice. The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement, barely perceptible. "Yeah… she is."
Michiko didn't acknowledge Fumi's hesitation. Her gaze stayed fixed until the bartender glanced up, as though sensing the scrutiny. Their eyes—autumn pools under the dim lights—flew to Michiko's corner of the room deliberately. Then, just for a second, the edges of those eyes turned into something like a private joke.
The bartender set a glass down with exacting care, fingers lingering an extra second on the rim before letting it rest. No broad smile—just a subtle lift of one side of the mouth, a promise or a challenge, Michiko couldn't tell which.
Michiko looked away first, heart thudding with anticipation. "I think I'll make her my test subject," she murmured, sliding a hand over her satiny blouse as if she were gearing up for a performance.
Fumi cocked her head, eyebrows arching. "What a selection method."
"It's efficient," Michiko replied, her tone dry but laced with amusement. "She qualifies."
Fumi hesitated, as if she wanted to rephrase something but decided against it. Michiko already had her phone out, angling the screen to catch her reflection, checking her lipstick as though plotting a strategic move.
"Are you sure you're ready for that, Michi-chan?" Fumi asked softly, a trace of concern at the tip of her voice.
Michiko tilted her chin up, lips curving into a confident smirk. "What's the worst that could happen?"
She lifted her glass, paused to admire the way the ice caught the light, then took a slow, deliberate sip. Warmth spread through her chest. The night was young, the game had just begun—and the bartender's watchful gaze only made it more enticing.