Chapter Text
⋆ Intimidation & Gin ⋆
The bar wasn’t crowded, just the usual murmur from a few tables and the low music from the speaker above the counter. Maki dropped onto a stool with a heavy sigh, like the whole day had stuck to her. She ran a hand through her high ponytail, then rubbed her neck until it cracked. Still wearing her dojo sweatshirt with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a bruise was visible on her left forearm. Her face looked tired, but her eyes—partially hidden by rectangular glasses—were sharp, direct, with a quiet patience that seemed purely polite.
A girl handed her a beer, already opened, without asking. Sitting next to her, Nobara was her opposite: an unbuttoned blouse casually worn over a wrinkled work suit, lipstick perfect despite the long day. She had kicked off her heels as soon as she came in, leaving them under the stool. She worked as an assistant at a law office and never missed a chance to complain about dumb clients. Or colleagues. Or the boss.
“Someone got you mad again?” she asked, smirking.
Maki rubbed her shoulder. “A new kid asked if ‘kicking’ actually works. I had to explain it… by showing him.”
Nobara laughed. “You love showing off.”
“I’m just teaching him to defend himself,” Maki replied. “If he screams at the first touch, not my problem.”
“You should get that printed on a T-shirt,” Nobara said, sipping her honey-colored cocktail—too much gin, too much lemon.
Gojo, the bartender, dried a glass with theatrical slowness, like he was performing a show only he could see. Black shirt, rolled-up sleeves, apron tied carelessly, and his trademark sunglasses—even though it was almost nine at night. Naturally.
The bar was a recent whim: he’d bought it from a friend “to break the boredom,” and quickly turned it into a casual but curated place, with dim lights, mismatched chairs, and questionably named cocktails. Ironic, considering he couldn’t handle alcohol. After one drink, he got even more unbearable than usual, which is why nobody let him drink. But it didn’t stop him from posing as a top-tier bartender, dishing out “cocktails and unsolicited wisdom” like it was his calling.
Maki and Nobara had started coming there almost by accident. Then it became their regular post-work spot. Sometimes Maki’s roommates joined them, but that night, they weren’t around.
“So,” Gojo said, putting down the glass, “another victim of the fearsome Master Zenin today?”
Maki glared. “Gojo. If you want to keep your teeth, stick to serving drinks.”
“But I’m here to serve love and wisdom, not just beer,” he shot back, flicking his wrist like a magician.
“Honestly, I think your punching bag is considering leaving you for emotional neglect.”
Nobara blew into her drink to hide a laugh. “She acts tough, but comes here to put on a show.”
Gojo pointed at Maki with the bottle. “She comes for my gin. And my unsolicited advice.”
Maki rolled her eyes, half-smiling. Nobara did the same.
“We’d come more often if you gave us a free one,” Nobara teased.
“Oh, gladly,” Gojo said, feigning outrage, shaking the shaker like an orchestra conductor. “It’d take so little. Some kindness, a caress for the soul, a ‘thanks Gojo, you’re a beacon in our dark lives’… normal friend stuff.”
Maki shook her head, whispering to Nobara without taking her eyes off her drink: “Notice since he opened the bar, he’s convinced himself he’s a sommelier?”
Nobara leaned forward, trying not to laugh. “Too bad he goes down like a sack of potatoes with any liquor.”
“Hey! I may not handle alcohol, but I have taste. My palate is refined!” Gojo shot back, offended.
“Your palate’s been on vacation since before you opened the bar.”
“At least I don’t look like a survivor of an assault,” he smirked, then nodded at Nobara. “Look at her: even if her personality could scare sharks, she can at least seem classy at first.”
Nobara glared. “You’d better stop talking while you’re still standing.”
“Touché.”
“Do I look brushable after six hours at the gym?” Maki snapped. “She gets polished by a law office, I get polished by a punching bag.”
Gojo laughed. “That’s why you’re always alone.”
Maki tapped him lightly on the arm. “I’m alone because I prefer peace of mind over conversations with idiots.”
Nobara made a dramatic hand gesture. “Translation: nobody survives more than two sentences.”
“Maybe… you just scare the wrong ones,” a hesitant voice said from nearby.
Maki spun, while Nobara raised an eyebrow.
At a nearby table, a boy watched awkwardly. Dark, messy hair, gentle features, large clear eyes, almost too sincere for this place. Plain hoodie, hands gripping a Ramune glass like an anchor.
“And you are… the judge of the evening?” Maki asked sharply.
He scratched his neck, red-faced. “No, I mean… just thinking out loud. Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Too bad, you did.” Gojo laughed from behind the counter. “Here’s our awkward hero! Not everyone makes an entrance like that!”
Nobara smiled. “Don’t worry. If you want to join the ‘inappropriate comment’ club, you’re in the right place.”
Yuta adjusted in his seat, trying to look dignified. “Actually… I’m just waiting for a friend.”
Gojo leaned over. “New around here?”
Yuta nodded. “Not really from this neighborhood. Just… taking care of some things.”
Gojo studied him, then grinned. “Perfect. You’re neutral. Great: answer one question…”
Yuta frowned. “A question?”
“Yes. Would you ever buy a drink for a tough, independent girl like Maki?”
Maki rubbed her face, embarrassed. “Gojo…”
Yuta paled. “Uh… I mean… I… don’t know if—”
“Louder!” Gojo pressed.
Maki leaned forward, gaze calculating. “Keep going, or I’ll make you mop the floor with your tongue!”
Yuta swallowed, then admitted honestly: “Look, your friend is really cute. But… she’s intimidating. Maybe if she smiled a little more, things would be easier.”
Silence. Maki froze him with a glare that could suck the air out of the room. Nobara barely held back a laugh.
“I like you. Either surprisingly brave… or an idiot. The line is thin.”
Yuta, flustered, tried again. “Anyway… if you teach self-defense, I admire that. Must be hard… making people understand you’re not always in battle mode.”
Wrong move. Maki’s eyes went colder.
“Hard? No. I’m used to people thinking they need to explain who I am. Thought I’d gotten rid of that.”
Yuta tried to speak. She silenced him with a look.
“I’m not a puzzle to solve or a challenge to win. I don’t need your pity.”
“I wasn’t pitying you, just—”
“Enough.” She stood, grabbed her jacket, and left.
“Wow,” Nobara muttered, amused. “Record broken: they flee in under a minute. Now your turn.”
Maki didn’t answer. Just one last sharp glance at Yuta.
“Welcome to town.”
She stepped out, fists clenched in her worn sweatshirt pockets. The cool evening whipped her face, carrying faint rain, but it couldn’t soothe the irritation in her chest. Her heart pounded—not with excitement, but frustration: she’d let herself be caught up more than she wanted. Not her style to give in, especially to someone she barely knew.
She crossed the street, eyes fixed ahead, steps echoing on the wet pavement. Then, a familiar buzz startled her: she instinctively pulled out her phone, screen lighting her face:
[Mai – 21:37] Dad wants to know if you’re coming to Uncle’s birthday.
[Maki – 21:38] No.
Conversation closed. That was all. The Zenin family was always complicated: silences and expectations. More a minefield than a family: follow rules or be ignored.
Maki had stopped seeking her father’s approval years ago—he was happy to forget she existed. Mai… was different. They had drifted apart for reasons Maki would never say out loud, still burning in her throat. They texted occasionally, only when necessary—which for her meant more often than she liked.
She climbed to the second floor, opened her door, and called a mechanical greeting: “Panda? Togei?”
Silence. They were out of town for the weekend.
She kicked off her shoes and stretched. Small but livable apartment: two bedrooms, living room with kitchenette, perpetually messy bathroom. Living with Panda and Inumaki for almost two years. At first tough—Panda talked too much, Inumaki too little—but they found their balance. Sometimes went out together, other times marathoned trashy movies: Z-grade horror, ‘90s fantasy, poorly subtitled Japanese musicals.
Maki changed quickly, tossing her sweatshirt onto the couch, settling in something comfortable. Grabbed snacks and collapsed onto the couch, turning on TV. Perfect for zoning out.
Finally under the covers, exhaustion wrapped around her. Hands behind her head, eyes on the ceiling. She thought of the dojo, the kid she’d made cry, Gojo’s quips, Mai. And, reluctantly, the boy from the bar. That phrase. Hesitant, sincere:
"Look, your friend is really cute. But… she’s intimidating. Maybe if she smiled a little more, things would be easier.”
It had bothered her—not the words, but the feeling that somehow… it wasn’t wrong. Damn it.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. She just hoped she wouldn’t see him again. He got on her nerves. That type of person always wasted her time.
Morning light filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting crooked lines on the floor. Maki opened her eyes slowly, face in the pillow, staying still. No messages, no alarm, no dojo class. Just silence and the glorious prospect of doing nothing.
She’d watch that movie. Last of the fantasy saga Gojo recommended—and which she ended up enjoying.
“If you like angry people swinging swords, you’ll love it,” he said. Right for once.
Maybe later laundry, bathroom cleaning. Or not. But first… coffee.
Glasses on, she got out of bed slowly, dragging her feet. Loose training shirt, mid-thigh, black stretchy underwear. Sweatpants somewhere on the floor.
Hallway, yawning, heading for the kitchen, until—
Scrash.
A sharp noise, like something falling.
Maki froze. Listened. Light footsteps. Someone in the kitchen. Someone who shouldn’t be there.
Heart racing, she pressed against the wall, ready. If a thief—she’d take them down. If Panda or Toge early—funny story.
She leaned, enough to see the shadow. Not Panda. Not Toge. Too thin. Messy. Perfect: a thief.
She lunged, grabbed him from behind, twisted, slammed him to the ground, jar and cup flying. The boy groaned, frozen under her.
“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!” she growled, knee on his back.
“Ow—wait!”
The voice. Maki raised an eyebrow. She recognized it just before turning him. Wide-eyed, messy hair, deer-in-headlights: guy from the bar.
Silence. Three long seconds. Then, tired and irritated: she let him go.
“You,” she muttered. “What the fu—”