Chapter 3

  Kenshi Yamamoto

  The bar feels smaller now, like Ken’s stories

  have soaked into the wood, slipping between the whiskey stains and old regrets.

  Ice clinks against glass. A slow soul tune hums from the jukebox, and the

  flickering lights overhead can’t decide whether to hold on or give up. The

  weight of his words presses against it all.

  Ken leans back, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at

  the edges of his mouth. But his eyes—sharp, knowing—say something else. The

  usual bravado in his voice is muted, like he’s peeled back a layer of himself

  that doesn’t often see the light.

  “Split-screen lives,” he murmurs, rolling the

  words around like a sip of aged scotch. “Carlos with his guitar, Akina with her

  mask. Both locked in cages they don’t even see. Reaching for something they

  can’t name.” He exhales a dry laugh. “Funny thing is, they don’t even realize

  they’re reading from the same damn script.”

  The words hang between them, thick as smoke. He

  slides a glass across the counter—smooth, practiced, theatrical—but his gaze

  lingers on the patron, letting it all sink in.

  “Carlos still thinks that guitar’s a lifeline,”

  Ken says, voice dipping into something reflective. “Like if he lets go, he’ll

  drown. And Akina? She’s already underwater. Just hasn’t noticed yet.”

  His gaze shifts, drifting past the walls, past

  the neon glow bleeding in from the streets. “You think life’s cruel?” He

  pauses, lets the question breathe. “Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just… a stage.

  And we’re all stumbling through lines we didn’t get to write.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The patron stares at his untouched drink,

  watching amber liquid cling to the glass, slow and deliberate. The jukebox hums

  on, the melody fading into the background like a memory trying to slip away.

  Ken taps his fingers against the counter, a lazy

  rhythm against the wood. “Ever wonder if we’re all just waiting for a cue that

  never comes?” His voice is light, almost amused, but there’s something under

  it. “Or maybe we’re so desperate for meaning, we forget to just sit back and

  watch the show.”

  Outside, the neon flickers, throwing broken

  shadows against the window. Inside, the silence stretches, thick and expectant.

  Ken tilts his head, studying the patron with detached curiosity.

  “Funny, innit?” He smirks, but there’s no humor

  in it. “We walk around thinking we’re the only ones carrying this weight.

  Convinced no one else is stuck in the same mess. Then someone walks

  in—different story, same misery—and suddenly—” He flicks his fingers, shaking

  off an invisible bad hand. “The world feels a little lighter.”

  The patron exhales, slow and measured. His

  fingers tighten around the glass, the weight of it grounding him.

  Ken pours another round. The liquid hits the

  glass with a quiet finality. Not just a drink. A gesture. A translation of

  something unspoken.

  “You know, mate…” Ken’s voice drops, steady.

  “…you’re not so different from them. We’re all clawing at the walls of this

  play, trying to rewrite the script. Some use guitars. Some use masks. And some

  just sit here, staring at a drink, wondering where the hell the plot went

  sideways.”

  The patron lifts his glass, lets the bitterness

  settle on his tongue. When he meets Ken’s gaze, there’s something

  there—recognition. They’re all actors in the same tired play. But maybe—just

  maybe—it’s time to stop playing the part.

  Ken drains his own drink, slow and deliberate,

  like closing a book. The patron watches him, taking in the calm of someone

  who’s already made peace with the role he’s been cast in. The lost look in his

  own reflection feels thinner now, like the weight of the act is slipping.

  Something clicks—something he can’t quite name.

  Ken leans forward, voice steady, each word

  landing like the final line before the curtain falls. “You get it now, don’t

  you?” His eyes gleam under the low light, sharp, knowing. “Life’s a stage. The

  only question is—are you gonna keep pretending, or are you finally gonna step

  off and find something real?”

  The patron stares at his drink. The silence

  swallows the room whole.

  Ken watches, waiting, but he already knows—this

  isn’t his scene anymore. The next move isn’t his to make. Maybe the patron will

  step off the stage. Maybe he won’t.

  Either way, the show goes on.