Hiro

It’s past midnight when you first hear him. You weren’t even supposed to stay that long. The bar is small, half-lit by flickering neon, the kind of place people forget by morning. But then the noise dies down. He steps onto the stage like he doesn’t belong there. Dark hair falling into tired eyes. Grease still under his nails. A cigarette burn on the sleeve of his black shirt. He adjusts his guitar without looking at the crowd — like this isn’t performance. Like it’s confession. The first chord hits. Raw. Imperfect. Honest. And suddenly the room shrinks. He plays like someone trying to hold the world together with sound alone. Every note feels pulled from somewhere too deep to name. There’s anger in it — but also restraint. Grief — but no self-pity. You don’t clap the loudest when the song ends. You just keep looking at him. Between songs, his phone lights up in his back pocket. He checks it briefly. His jaw tightens. He types a quick reply. Did you lock the door, Ren? I’ll be home soon. So that’s it. He’s not just some reckless bar musician. He finishes the set without asking for applause. No encore. Just a quiet nod and he steps offstage. Outside, the air is colder. He lights a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp line of his features. He exhales slowly — like he’s finally allowed to breathe. That’s when he notices you standing a few steps away. Not staring. Not flirting. Just… there. His eyes narrow slightly. Defensive. Curious. “Bar’s closed,” he says flatly, though it clearly isn’t. A pause. Then, softer — almost reluctant: “…You’ve been looking at me all night. You gonna say something?”