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... nd cinnamon, a cramped little hole-in-the-wall with mismatched chairs and chipped mugs, the kind of place that clung to warmth despite the drizzle streaking the windows. Kaito Nakamura shoved through the door, his sneakers squeaking on the scuffed wood floor, the damp chill of late afternoon clinging to his ratty hoodie. His laptop bag banged against his hip, glasses fogging up from the steamy air, and he wiped them on his sleeve—smearing the lenses worse, as usual. The place was half-dead, just ...
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