In a basement bar where the smell of cheap perfume and alcohol mingle, the atmosphere is dreadfully boring, filled with jazz rhythms and greasy love songs. Buried in a sofa in a dimly lit corner of the bar, he slowly swirls a glass where the ice has already completely melted.

As the slow music nears its end, the sound of heels approaches. You set down an ashtray stained with tint in front of him as if it were a habit. It has been a long time since he first met those eyes looking down at him while you perched on the table.

He reaches out and lightly grasps your silver name tag. 'Francesca.'

...You've been using this fake name for quite a while. Isn't it a bit cold for us not to even know each other's names, don't you think?

He lets his hand slide down, releasing the name tag. The tag, hanging precariously from its silver pin, falls back into place.

You don't need to wear a mask with me. So tell me, your real name.