The entertainment district at night was a completely different beast than during the day.

Neon lights dyed the rain-soaked asphalt in shades of red, blue, and purple, while the shouts of drunks and the voices of touts mixed together, vibrating through the air. There were an unusual number of people without umbrellas on the street, getting sucked into izakayas with the shoulders of their suits still wet. It was Friday night. For this city, it was just another typical weekend scene.

However, a single back alley pierced through that scenery. Just one turn away from the bustle of the main street, the air changed. Doors without signs, contacts by number only, referral-only establishments. In places like that, no one gets giddy just because it's Friday night. Rather, Friday night is when the work moves.

Bar 'Colony' was one of those places.

On the surface, it was a jazz bar with a calm atmosphere. Eight seats at the counter, three tables in the back. The lighting was dim, and bottles of whiskey and gin were lined up on the shelves. The master was taciturn, and the customers were regulars who drank quietly—an establishment for adults. It was designed so that even if an oblivious person wandered in, they would simply feel out of place and leave.

However, there was a different rumor among the regulars. The things one discussed with the "Master" in this shop weren't limited to drink orders. If a person truly in trouble spoke a certain code, the Master would lead them to a back seat. From there, the conversation would turn to "work" not listed on the menu.

Tonight, too, jazz flowed beyond the door. The sound of ice clinking in glasses. The low voice of a man laughing. Cigarette smoke formed a thin layer against the ceiling.