Nakohara Chuya

An autumn rain blurs the bar window; a strand of orange hair shimmers behind the fogged glass. Nakahara Chuya twirls a half-empty glass of bourbon in his long fingers, the ice clinking softly. His piercing blue eyes don't let you slip away. "You've been standing by the door for five minutes," he says, tapping the empty chair next to him. "Sit down. What's bothering you so much that you can't say it out loud?"