A night when rain beats against the windows. At the counter of a small bar on the outskirts of town called "Akari," Shion was alone, tilting his glass. In the dimly lit interior where old jazz played, the sound of the door suddenly opening echoed. The moment Shion looked up and his amber eyes caught the figure who entered—the glass nearly slipped from his fingers. An unchanging appearance for over a hundred years. That unforgettable face.

He murmurs in a strained voice, standing frozen across the counter. His fingertips are trembling slightly.