The soft murmur of glass and ice punctuated the still air inside the dimly lit cocktail bar.
Halfway through their drinks, Gin stood and left—silently heading toward the restroom.
The moment he disappeared, Vodka shifted in his seat slightly, casting a furtive glance at Hayashi Yoshiki across the bar. His lips twitched like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
The two sat there, quietly nursing their drinks.
Behind the bar, the bartender methodically polished a row of gleaming glasses beneath amber light. In front of them, the illuminated shelves reflected a mosaic of liquors—clear, dark, golden, rose—sitting in rows like sleeping assassins.
Yoshiki smiled faintly as he scanned the bottles.
Meanwhile, Vodka, having already finished his Vodka Martini, continued to stare into the empty glass as if searching for the meaning of life.
It's a nice glass, he thought absently.
The response was so immediate, it startled Yoshiki, who paused and tilted his head with a soft smile.
Vodka realized he had overreacted and cleared his throat gruffly.
"Do you have any wine recommendations?"
Vodka blinked, then relaxed a little.
"I usually go with the classic. Vodka Martini."
Yoshiki chuckled. "Drinking the wine of your code name?"
"It's a bit of a tradition," Vodka explained. "Everyone in the Organization usually sticks to their name's drink. You develop a taste for it after a while."
The bartender had already prepared his refill—clear, smooth, garnished with a lemon twist. Classic.
Yoshiki understood the psychology behind it.
It was more than habit. In an Organization where code names replaced identities, associating oneself with the drink was a way of internalizing the role—of living the cover.
As Vodka sipped his second martini, Yoshiki noticed something.
The man hadn't looked directly at him even once.
Instead, his gaze remained firmly fixed on the drink, the counter, anywhere but him.
Because while Vodka may have killed his fair share of enemies, Cointreau was different.
He was like a ghostwriter of fate—unseen, omniscient, and terrifyingly untraceable.
Targets under Cointreau's "accidental" plots never realized they were pawns until it was too late. Some never even figured out they were targets.
The case with Wakamatsu Toshihide had solidified his fear.
A college student, just a regular guy—turned into a murderer without even realizing it. All because he offended the wrong person.
And it worked. The police believed it. The media swallowed it.
If Cointreau could do that to someone outside the Organization...
Then what happens if I make a mistake around him?
What if I'm driving one day, and suddenly a pipe "accidentally" impales me through the windshield?
Even a seasoned killer like Vodka found that thought... chilling.
"...Just call me Vodka."
Best to avoid pettiness and placate this guy. Who knew what might happen if Cointreau took "Mr." as some kind of insult?
"But why do you call Gin casually and not me?" Vodka muttered, half-joking.
"Because Gin doesn't care whether people use honorifics or not. So I didn't bother."
Was he trying to drive a wedge between them?
"What's your real name, Vodka?"
"...Why are you asking?"
"I collect names," Yoshiki said, smiling as he pulled out a small notebook. "It's a habit. Names are the gateway to understanding people. And since you already know mine..."
Vodka blinked behind his sunglasses.
"...No, give me that notebook."
He scribbled something neatly and handed it back.
Yoshiki glanced at it:
So it was true. One of the Easter egg names from the anime.
He smiled. "It's a very interesting name."
Vodka looked bemused. "What's so interesting about a name like that?"
"Well, if I used it as a reference for a character... maybe I'd call him Uozuka Dairo. Or Uozuka Jiro. Or what about Kojiro?"
"...What's wrong with you?"
Was this some kind of elaborate prank?
How could someone so smart have such terrible naming instincts?
The two fell silent again.
Yoshiki, ever the sociable one, passed his notebook and pen to the bartender as well.
The bartender jotted down his name and then slid a Cosmopolitan across the counter.
Vodka raised an eyebrow.
"...That's a chick drink."
"It's got Cointreau in it," the bartender replied with a wink.
Two parts vodka. One part Cointreau. Cranberry and lime juice.
The result was a beautifully blushed pink cocktail.
Fruity. Refreshing. Slightly tart.More fitting for a date, he thought.Not a code name.
A soft glow lit the bar. The scent of citrus and alcohol mingled with cigarette smoke and the quiet hum of jazz.
Out of the corner of his eye, Yoshiki spotted Gin—seated in a booth nearby, on the phone, half in shadows.
Still working, even past 11 p.m.
As he drained the last of his drink, ready to leave, he noticed Vodka staring intently at his phone, face a little... conflicted?
Yoshiki tilted his head.
"...Something wrong?"
Vodka stiffened and immediately locked his screen, like a kid caught watching something embarrassing.
Then, without warning:
"Ahem... hey, Cointreau. Have you ever... uh... experienced women?"
Yoshiki stared, bewildered.
Vodka scratched his cheek, avoiding eye contact.
"I was thinking of visiting a... brothel. Just to unwind. You wanna come?"
Yoshiki burst out laughing.
"Sorry, Vodka. Not my thing."
Vodka sipped his drink, unfazed.
It had been a long shot anyway.
He'd just been inspired after watching some salarymen bond over drinks and girls after work. Thought it might help them get closer.
But Cointreau was… not that kind of guy.
Too refined. Too private.
Or maybe just too dangerous.