In the dead of night, Aoi stood behind the counter of Tsukishita, a small izakaya tucked away in a quiet alley off the bustling city streets.
It was her second year at university, and the autumn chill had settled in. With her parents' allowance no longer stretching far enough, Aoi had scoured the city for a job that could fit around her studies. Tsukishita was a weathered, wooden building, its faded charm glowing faintly under the sway of a single lantern. The creaking floorboards greeted each guest with a groan. The late-night shift paid well, and she'd heard the customers were few. For Aoi, the promise of a quiet place to earn a living was too good to pass up.
"Welcome! Table for how many?"
Her voice carried a practiced cheer as she called out from the counter. That night, the place was nearly empty—just two middle-aged regulars nursing beers and glued to a baseball game on the TV. In the kitchen, the manager, Yamamoto, was humming to himself, checking the fryer oil. Most nights, this hour was calm, almost sleepy. But tonight, something felt off. The air hung heavy, and Aoi chalked it up to the autumn cold seeping through the walls.
Around 1 a.m., the sliding door rasped open. A tall man stepped inside, draped in a black coat, his face obscured by a hood. Without a word, he claimed a stool at the far end of the counter. Aoi grabbed a menu and approached, but her steps felt sluggish, as if the air resisted her.
"What can I get you?"
The man didn't look up. His voice was low, barely more than a murmur. "Beer. Cold."
Aoi fetched a bottle from the fridge and poured it into a glass. As she handed it over, his fingers brushed hers—icy, unnaturally so. A shiver crawled up her spine. He nudged the hood back just enough to drink, but his face remained hidden in shadow. The regulars, engrossed in their game, didn't spare him a glance. Aoi slipped back to the kitchen and leaned toward Yamamoto, her voice hushed.
"Yamamoto-san, doesn't that guy seem… weird?"
Yamamoto wiped his oil-smeared hands on a rag and peeked at the counter. "Weird? Just another drunk. Don't worry about it, Aoi."
But the unease in her chest wouldn't settle. She returned to the counter, stealing glances at the man. He'd finished his beer, the empty bottle resting silently before him. Then, slowly, he lowered his hood. Aoi's breath caught. His face was… wrong. Blurred, like a smudged sketch. No distinct eyes, nose, or mouth—just a vague, shadowy void where a face should have been.
"Sir…?"
Her voice trembled. The man didn't respond. Instead, he rose, placing a hand on the counter. That hand, colder than before, felt like it could freeze her to the bone. The air in the izakaya turned glacial. The regulars' laughter and the TV's drone faded into a distant hum. Aoi's heart pounded like a drum.
"You saw me, didn't you?"
His voice wasn't spoken—it echoed inside her skull. Aoi stumbled back, her shoulders hitting the counter's edge. The man's shadowy face leaned closer, twisting into what might have been a smile.
"Yamamoto-san! Help!"
Her scream tore through the silence. Yamamoto burst from the kitchen, brandishing a frying pan. But the man was already on the other side of the counter. Yamamoto swung, his voice booming. "What the hell is this guy?!"
The pan sliced through the air, but the man's form shimmered like smoke, untouched. He stepped toward Aoi. She ducked beneath the counter, clutching her phone with shaking hands. The screen stayed black, lifeless. The lights overhead flickered. The regulars had vanished, leaving only Aoi, Yamamoto, and the man in the empty izakaya.
"You're the one… who found me."
His voice swept through the room like a cold wind. Aoi felt an icy breath graze her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut and screamed.