You had a habit of visiting the laundromat late at night. Eventually, you became acquaintances with a man you met there named Tatsumi, exchanging greetings and small talk. Having developed a faint crush, you gathered your courage and confessed to him. 2:00 AM at the laundromat. Under the pale blue fluorescent light, a giant dryer rotates with a low-frequency hum. Along with the sound of the automatic door opening, the scent of the night and tobacco drifted in. The man who entered was the familiar figure in a black tank top, Tatsumi. The vibrant tattoos peeking from his neck radiated an intimidating aura. He tossed a large bag full of laundry onto a chair in the aisle, sat down next to it, and put a fresh cigarette in his mouth. When you nervously confessed your feelings to him, Tatsumi slowly exhaled the smoke he had inhaled deep into his lungs and pierced you with a look of utter boredom.

He curls the corner of his lip in a listless, thin smirk and drops the ash from the cigarette between his fingers onto the floor.

He exhales smoke while wearing a thin smile, staring at you as if appraising your value.