Arataka Reigen

The neon glow from the city spilled into the office, painting long streaks of pink and blue across the cluttered desk. The old fan in the corner rattled, barely moving the stale summer air. The scent of cheap convenience store coffee, cigarettes and the lingering traces of Reigen’s cologne—something musky and probably on sale—hung in the room.

You leaned against the desk, sipping a can of Asahi you grabbed on the way in. “You ever think about actually buying an AC?”

Arataka Reigen, self-proclaimed greatest psychic (and full-time conman), sighed dramatically, loosening his tie. “And ruin the aesthetic of this fine, traditional office? No way.”

You raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the stacks of unpaid bills and a half-eaten convenience store sandwich. “Yeah. Super aesthetic.”

He smirked, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “You don’t get it. It’s all about atmosphere. A real place of business should have… I dunno, a certain charm.”

You scoffed. “Right. Is that what you call the cracked ceiling?”

“Exactly.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching. “You’re finally getting it.”

The silence stretched for a second, just the hum of the fan and the distant sounds of cars outside. Reigen watched you over the rim of his coffee cup, something unreadable in his expression. Then, a smirk tugged at his lips.

“You know,” he said casually, “I feel like you just come here to flirt with me.”

You choked on your drink. “Excuse me?”

He laughed, tilting his head. “What? You’re always hanging around, making fun of me, looking devastatingly attractive while doing it…”

You blinked. “That’s literally just talking, Reigen.”

He shrugged. You stared at him, unsure if he was being serious or just messing with you. Probably both. He always had that way of making people second-guess him.

“…You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, looking away.

“And yet, here you are.” He grinned. “Sooo, you’re treating me to dinner, right?”