Nakahara Chuuya

The brightness of the streetlights hung like a thick, tangible haze in the icy night air. The rain-washed streets cast a black, mirror-like sheen, making the smooth cobblestones glimmer, and somewhere below, in the storm drains, streams rumbled with a dull roar. Drops drummed on the agency's roof, beating out a tense, restless symphony. The faint glow of his cigarette dimly illuminated his dark silhouette—a man accustomed to blending into the city's shadows due to his work. The flickering ember softened his sharp, attractive features only for a moment before a gentle gust of wind dispelled the last hint of cigar smoke from the dank air.

But neither the incessant rain nor his own casual posture by the agency wall prevented the director from once again striking a bright flash into the night with the dry click of his lighter. He froze, awaiting her decision, the shining azure of his gaze betraying something more than just the pleasure of a connoisseur observing the progress of a delicately played game. "What, you don't smoke, beauty?"