As Aoi's consciousness teetered on the edge of darkness, the izakaya's sliding door slammed open.
The rattle of wood broke the spell, and the man's grip on her wrist faltered. Aoi yanked her arm free and collapsed behind the counter. Through her blurred vision, she saw a figure at the entrance—one of the regulars, the middle-aged man who always watched baseball. He stood sober, his sharp gaze locked on the shadowy figure.
"Hey, you. What the hell are you doing?"
His voice was low, commanding. Aoi crouched beneath the counter, holding her breath, watching the scene unfold. The man with the blurred face turned slowly, fixing his void-like stare on the regular. The air grew denser, the lights flickering again. But the regular didn't flinch. He took a step forward.
"You deaf? Let her go."
The shadowy man said nothing. Instead, his form wavered, spreading like smoke. Aoi's ears rang with his laughter—a discordant chorus of voices overlapping. The regular's brow furrowed as he pulled something from his pocket: an old, tarnished metal cross. He raised it, and the shadowy man froze for a split second.
"Aoi, get to the kitchen!" the regular barked.
She scrambled, crawling toward the kitchen. Behind her, a sound like howling wind mingled with the regular's angry shouts. Reaching the kitchen, Aoi slammed the door shut and hid behind the refrigerator, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. Where was Yamamoto? What was happening to the shop? Her mind spiraled, but she grabbed a knife from the counter, clutching it tightly.
A loud thud came from beyond the door. Aoi stopped breathing, her grip on the knife tightening. The door creaked open, and the regular stepped inside, sweat glistening on his forehead, his hand trembling around the cross.
"Aoi, you okay? He's gone… or maybe he fled."
"Gone?" Her voice shook. "Who—what was he?"
The regular's face darkened, and he shook his head. "I can't explain much. But things like that… they've been showing up at this place for years. I didn't fully believe the stories myself, until now."
Aoi's eyes widened. No one had mentioned any ghost stories when she started working here. The regular continued.
"Yamamoto's out back, passed out. Don't worry, he's alive. When he wakes up, we'll make him spill everything."
Aoi nodded, setting the knife down. The regular led her through the back door to the alley, where Yamamoto lay slumped against the wall, eyes closed, a small cut on his forehead. Aoi rushed to him, and he groaned, stirring.
"Aoi… I'm sorry, I…"
"You're okay!" she said, relief flooding her. "But what's going on? Did you know about that guy?"
Yamamoto grimaced, pulling himself up. He exchanged a glance with the regular and sighed.
"I'll tell you. But not here—it's not safe. Let's go back inside."
The izakaya's lights were back on, casting a sterile glow over the empty space. The other customers were gone, and the beer Aoi had poured sat untouched on the counter. Yamamoto grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and poured himself a glass. His voice was low, heavy with exhaustion.
"This place has always had strange rumors. About fifty years ago, there was a fire here. People died. Ever since, there've been stories of weird customers showing up—shadowy figures with blurred faces. They come at night, always saying they've chosen someone."
Aoi's blood ran cold. That word—chosen—echoed the man's voice in her mind. Yamamoto went on.
"I thought it was just a ghost story. But ten years ago, the old manager… he was chosen. Went missing, never seen again. I've been careful about the late shifts since, but… Aoi, I'm sorry. I dragged you into this."
Aoi sat speechless. The regular spoke up.
"My dad was a regular here, too. He told me to always carry a cross, said it'd work against things like that. Lucky I had it tonight."
Aoi looked between them, her voice trembling. "He said I was chosen. What… what happens to me?"
Yamamoto and the regular exchanged a heavy look. Their silence stoked the fear clawing at her chest.