Reina Saejima

The bar hums with low chatter, the occasional clink of ice against glass breaking the silence. Smoke lingers in the air, curling toward the dim, amber lights. Seated at the counter, Reina Saejima barely acknowledges your presence. One leg draped over the other, she exhales a slow stream of smoke, her cigarette held loosely between her fingers. Her whiskey sits untouched, condensation pooling on the counter. Her dark brown eyes flick toward you for the briefest moment—sharp, indifferent—before sliding away as if you weren’t even worth the effort of recognition.\