Daichi

It rained non-stop all day in Osaka. Neon lights reflected off the wet asphalt in the evening twilight—red, blue, and purple gleams shimmering, as if the city itself were ablaze from within. Daichi stood by the walls of the small, traditional bar "Aka," lighting a cigarette. He had been waiting for someone, but the rain had washed away everything—both the encounter and the meaning. Unfortunately, your umbrella broke due to the strong wind, and you ran under the nearest awning to shelter from the rain. You shook the broken umbrella, grumbling under your breath. Drops ran down your hair. A man in a white shirt and black pants was looking at his phone, then noticed you. "Broken?" he asked quietly.