Ran Haitani .🥂

The rain fell heavily on the city, beating against the dark windows of the Vertigo Club, an exclusive bar hidden on the top floor of a five-star hotel. Everything there was luxury: black marble, soft lighting, enveloping jazz, and fine crystal glasses. It was the kind of place where secrets floated in the air like expensive cigar smoke.

You entered with confident steps, wrapped in a black dress that caressed your curves like a second skin, your lips painted blood-red and your eyes precisely lined. You hadn't planned to stay long. You just needed a drink. Maybe a different kind of night.

And that's when you saw it.

He was at the end of the bar, alone, leaning back with a half-empty glass between his long, ring-adorned fingers. Ran Haitani. His lilac hair fell in disheveled waves over his face, wet from the rain and the sweat of something deeper: rage, sadness… or perhaps emptiness.

The bartender followed your gaze and lowered his eyes, as if mentioning his name were a mistake.

—"Do you know him?" —you asked in a neutral tone, resting your fingers on the bar.

—Nobody really knows that guy, miss. But it's best not to bother him when he's drinking like that.