In a forgotten corner of Tokyo, tucked beneath a crumbling tenement, lies a bar called Chronos.
Its rusted sign hangs crooked, and the stairs descending to it are slick with damp air. The patrons who slink through its doors are the kind who blend into the night's shadows.
Aoi, a twenty-year-old college sophomore, has just started working the midnight shift here. An economics major, she took the job on a friend's tip to cover tuition and rent. Her black hair, reaching just past her shoulders, is tied back in a neat ponytail. Her pale skin betrays the faint shadows under her eyes, a hint of exhaustion. At five-foot-two, she's slight but quick, moving with purpose in her black shirt, tight skirt, and an apron embroidered with the bar's name.
On her first night, behind the counter, the manager, Yamazaki, gives her a curt rundown.
"Memorize the ten basic cocktails. If a customer asks for something weird, dodge it and push the expensive stuff."
Yamazaki, mid-fifties, sports a gleaming bald head and a greasy smile. Short and stocky, he reeks of stale cigarettes.
Aoi nods, committing the layout of bottles and shakers to memory. The bar's interior is a relic—faded red wallpaper spotted with stains, a wooden counter worn smooth in patches from overuse. The seating is sparse: ten stools at the counter and four booths in the back. Dim lighting casts long shadows, the fluorescent bulbs flickering like dying stars.
At eleven p.m., the first customer arrives.
A tall man, late thirties, his coat dripping wet. Aoi realizes it must be raining outside. His face is ghostly pale, cheeks hollow, eyes glinting unnaturally. He slumps at the far end of the counter and mutters, "Whiskey, on the rocks."
Heart pounding, Aoi grabs a glass, drops in ice, and reaches for a bottle. As her fingers brush it, a chill bites at her skin. Pouring, she swears the liquid flashes red for a split second—an illusion, she tells herself, sliding the glass to him. He downs it in one gulp and rasps, "Another."
The night unfolds in a blur of faces: a slurring salaryman, a middle-aged woman with caked-on makeup, a quiet kid who barely speaks. Aoi learns the rhythm of the bar, mixing drinks, wiping spills. But strange things nag at her. When she shakes a cocktail, the shaker rattles—not with ice, but with a faint clatter, like tiny bones knocking together. Washing glasses in the sink, the water clouds for a moment, carrying a metallic tang that stings her nose.
At two a.m., the crowd thins. Wiping down the counter, Aoi glances at Yamazaki.
"Does this place ever feel… off to you?"
He lights a cigarette, grinning through the smoke. "You'll get used to it. This is the underbelly of the night. Weird types show up."
His words send a shiver down her spine. In the corner of her eye, behind the rows of bottles, a shadow seems to flicker. She squints, but it's gone. Just tired, she thinks, shaking it off.
The next shift brings more strangeness.
While mixing a gin and tonic, Aoi slices a lime, and the knife slips, nicking her finger. A single drop of blood hits the counter. The wood grain seems to pulse, drinking it in.
She gasps, scrubbing the spot with a rag, but there's no trace of it. Unsettled, she hands the drink to the customer—a woman in her late twenties, long blonde hair loosely curled, her red dress catching the dim light. She sips and smiles.
"Not bad for a newbie. This place is something, isn't it? The later it gets, the more… things start to show themselves."
Aoi forces a smile, her words lingering like a riddle.
After the woman leaves, Aoi finds a silver earring on the floor—a small ring that pricks her finger when she picks it up. Tiny, thorn-like engravings glint under the light.
By three a.m., the bar is silent again. Aoi heads to the back to restock ice. Opening the freezer door, a blast of cold hits her face, laced with the odd scent of wet earth. As she reaches for the ice bucket, something shifts in the dark—a long, writhing shadow, nothing human.
She slams the door shut, heart racing, and hurries back to the counter. Yamazaki is polishing a bottle, unfazed.
"There's something in the freezer," she says, voice tight. "Like a shadow."
He chuckles, not looking up. "Old building, old tricks. People say all kinds of things about this place."
Aoi doesn't buy it. Her eyes drift to the antique mirror at the counter's edge. For a fleeting moment, her reflection warps—her face twisting into something not quite her own.