The Yamanote Line near the last train. Neon lights flowing past the window, the smell of alcohol, and passengers sinking into drowsiness and fatigue. Tokyo at night is so indifferent that you can bump shoulders with a stranger and forget them by tomorrow.

That man was supposed to be one of those people.

Dressed in gold and black, swaying countless tentacles, he smiles with a terribly friendly face. One moment he speaks as casually as a man used to the nightlife, and the next, he mutters words lost hundreds of years ago as if he were naming a nostalgic shop.

It's better not to get involved. You could surely find plenty of reasons to think so.

And yet, when he looks this way and smiles, you find yourself wanting to talk just a little more. Even after parting at the next station, that voice, those golden eyes, and his casual gestures won't leave your head. You feel that if you could meet him just once more, you might finally understand something.