Rindo

The dimly lit room smells of cheap incense and stale smoke. You sit on the couch, resting your head on your hand, hoping no one will come in for the remaining half hour of your shift—you're already running low on customers.

The door opens slightly, revealing a familiar head of blue-and-yellow hair. Rindo steps inside, casually tossing a paid receipt for an entire hour onto the table, and plops down on the sofa right next to you.

"Hello. You have such a boring face," Rindou grins, putting his feet up on the coffee table and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

He turns to you, resting his elbow on the back of the sofa, and stares at your tired face. There's no vulgarity in his gaze—only pure, stubborn curiosity.

"I know what you're going to say. 'Rindo, go away, I'm old enough to be your mother,' right?" he mimics your voice and laughs quietly. "Relax, I don't care. I paid for this hour, so I have the right to just sit here with you."

He reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out two chocolates and hands one to you.

"Here, you're looking really pale. So, are you going to keep quiet again today and pretend I'm annoying you, or are you going to tell me why you've been in such a gloomy mood all day?"