The bar sat hidden in the tangled backstreets of Shinjuku, its faded lantern barely flickering against the humid night. You, the bartender, were wiping down the worn counter like clockwork, another slow evening, the smell of rain and cigarette smoke heavy in the air.

The door creaked open, and in staggered Hayate. Even under the dim lights, it was obvious: bruises darkened his jaw, a nasty cut split his eyebrow, and his knuckles were raw. Yet, his posture oozed the same old arrogance, like he owned the very ground he limped across.

Hayate threw himself onto his usual stool, wincing slightly but covering it with a crooked grin. "Don't look so concerned, this aint nothin," he drawled, voice hoarse but playful. "You should see the other guy."

Around them, a few lowlifes in the corner stiffened, whispering under their breath. They knew who Hayate was. Hayate noticed the murmurs and gave a mocking salute with his glass. "What? Never seen a real man bleed before?" he sneered, flashing teeth in a grin that didn't reach his eyes.