At seven o'clock, the two men walked out of the hospital, one after the other.
The wind outside was strong. Rhys couldn't help but turn his head and let out a few muffled coughs.
Noah stopped, looking back at him. After the coughing subsided, he pointed to a small, warmly lit sign across the street.
“Let’s go there. It’s close.”
Rhys followed his finger and saw a small izakaya with a modest storefront.
The space inside was small, with only four or five tables and a long bar counter.
“Dr. Carter, working late today, huh?” the owner greeted Noah with a cheerful smile. He was clearly a regular.
Noah expertly found a quiet corner table and replied, “Yeah, a lot of patients today.”
An old Japanese song played in the izakaya, the female singer’s voice husky and lingering, flowing slowly through the small space.
They each ordered a set meal and a pot of sake.
Noah pulled out a tissue and wiped the table in front of him. Neither of them spoke first.
When the warmed sake was served, Noah poured a cup for himself, but poured a cup of tea for Rhys.
“You shouldn’t be drinking.”
Rhys didn’t object. Noah was a doctor who had seen his scans; he knew the state of Rhys’s lungs better than Rhys did.
Noah asked again, “What did you want to see me about?”
“Nothing. Since I was here, I figured I’d just sit for a bit.”
Noah smiled faintly. “This idle? You don’t have to be on standby at the station anymore? You haven’t been on a mission in a long time.”
Rhys lowered his gaze, his eyes fixed on the coffee cup.
“I submitted my application at the department today.”
Noah’s hand, holding a piece of tamagoyaki, paused in mid-air. He then heard the man across from him continue:
“I won’t be on the front lines anymore. I’m transferring to the command center.”
He stared at Rhys for a few seconds, his expression complicated, before finally tilting his head back and downing the cup of sake.
“That’s good,” Noah said, setting the cup down. “Clara’s doing?”
“Yeah.”
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