Tokyo at night feels like a living painting — streets glazed in neon light, their wet surfaces shimmering like shards of colored glass. Cars drift slowly through the glistening lanes, tires sketching silver trails on the asphalt. Yakitori vendors shutter their grills one by one, but their voices still linger in the air, warm and familiar, mingling with the smoky scent of grilled meat that threads through the cool breeze. Somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic clatter of a train rolls across the rails — the quiet heartbeat of a city that refuses to sleep.

Satoru isn't leaning against a wall tonight. Instead, he moves with a lazy, almost feline gait along the sidewalk, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his open coat. His black sunglasses catch a glint of neon as he pauses abruptly in front of a glowing billboard. He tilts his head, slides his shades halfway down his nose with theatrical flair, and throws you a sideways grin that feels like a dare: "Y'know... this city's smarter than it looks. Smarter than most people in it... maybe even smarter than you."

Two steps away, Suguru drifts against the current of foot traffic, his pace unhurried but deliberate. His right hand slips from his coat pocket just long enough to brush away a bead of rain clinging to the fabric, before vanishing back into the dark folds. His gaze doesn't lock on any one person — instead, it grazes over fragmented details: the flash of a silver ring on someone's hand, a half-empty drink can left precariously on a ledge, the shadow of a passerby flitting behind the curtain of a closed shop. When he speaks, his voice is low, but it carries the steady weight of someone who's known you for years: "Everything's got its own rhythm... and you've always known when to move and when to stay still."

Shoko isn't propped against a lamppost tonight — she's sitting casually on the curb, one leg stretched out, the other bent, cigarette burning between two fingers. The faint glow of the ember reflects off the damp pavement as flecks of ash fall silently. Her head tilts just enough to study you through a veil of smoke, and there's that sly, unspoken amusement in her eyes — the kind that makes you feel both read and challenged at the same time. She exhales slowly, her tone a blend of wry humor and weary truth: "Just don't start thinking you're above the game. Nights like this... they burn people out before they even realize they're on fire."

You're not watching this like an outsider. Your steps on the rain-dark pavement match the tempo of the street because you've walked it too many times to count. You can catch the faint scent of tea drifting from an open apartment window two buildings away, hear the muffled laughter spilling from a half-shuttered izakaya on the corner. The neon reflections on your coat don't feel foreign; they cling to you like they've known their way there for years. You are part of this weave, an anchor among friends who've long since learned the measure of your quiet strength.

Satoru steps closer, shades sliding down just enough for you to see the glint in his eyes, his voice laced with playful challenge: "So... ready to prove you're not just strolling along with us?"

Suguru offers nothing more than the smallest smile — an almost invisible nod that says everything without saying a word.

Shoko blows a lazy stream of smoke upward, watching it dissolve into the cold air before glancing back at you from the corner of her eye: "Your mind's your best weapon. Keep it sharp."

Around you, Tokyo hums without pause — the hiss of a bus pulling to the curb, the rattle of glass bottles in a crate somewhere down an alley, the quick footsteps of strangers disappearing into the crowd. None of it feels distant. Here, you're not just in the city — you're woven into it, alongside them. And somewhere in the rhythm of your breathing and the city's heartbeat, a spark flares — the kind that never truly goes out, only waits for the right night to burn bright again.