The bar was small, narrow as a book’s spine, and packed with people who smoked and talked and didn’t care about Alan O’Toole. He was slouched at a corner table, half a bottle of down, the brown liquid rolling over the ice in his glass like waves breaking on a worn shore. Beside him sat Curt Pineau, fidgeting, his hands twitching like he was waiting to step into the batter’s box, though no bat was near and no field stretched before him.

Across from them, she sat: Misaki, her black hair spilling over her shoulders in thin streams, her eyes dark and unreadable. She was beautiful in a way that made Alan’s head hurt worse than the whiskey, and she was bored. Curt had said three sentences to her in twenty minutes, each one a foul tip of a compliment, a weak offering of himself. Alan sighed and drained his glass, slamming it on the table.

“Princess,” Alan said, his voice thick and slow, like molasses poured from a tin. Misaki raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Let me tell you a story.”

Curt stiffened, his shoulders drawing tight, but he didn’t stop Alan. Maybe he couldn’t.

“There’s a legend,” Alan began, leaning forward. “A mythos, if you will. A tale of the Dayman. You know the Dayman, don’t you?”

Misaki shook her head, bemused.

“Well, you should,” Alan said, his voice rising. “The Dayman, he’s a master. A master of karate and friendship—for everyone. But he wasn’t always that way, no, ma’am.” He waved a hand, brushing aside time itself. “He started as nothing. Less than nothing. A shadow. But one day, he stood up. Stood up against a nameless evil, the kind that creeps and seeps into the cracks of the world, into men’s hearts. He fought it, and he beat it.”

Curt coughed, but Alan ignored him. His hand slammed the table for emphasis. “And then, Princess, the Dayman saved someone. Someone like you.” His eyes met hers, bloodshot but steady. “A princess. He saved her and became a man, a real man, because that’s what a man does. He fights. He saves. And do you know what the princess did?”

Misaki leaned in now, her amusement shifting into curiosity. “What did she do?”

“She loved him,” Alan said simply, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “She loved him because he was brave and stupid and kind. And because he cared. And that, my dear Princess, is where the story ends. The Dayman, he doesn’t live forever, but he loves forever. That’s the deal.”

The bar seemed quieter for a moment, as if even the smoke paused to listen.

Alan leaned back, a crooked grin on his face. “And you know, Curt here” – he jabbed a finger at his friend – “he’s got a bit of the Dayman in him. Hit .279 last season. Thirty-one doubles, eight triples, a 129 wRC+. You know what that means, Princess?”

Misaki tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “What does it mean?”

“It means he’s good,” Alan said, his grin fading into something softer. “It means he fights his battles, just like the Dayman. Maybe not with karate, but with 32 inches of American hardwood. And he’s got friendship down, too. For everyone.”

Curt’s face was red, his mouth half-open like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Misaki looked at him, her gaze lingering longer now.

Alan poured himself another glass and raised it, the amber liquid catching the dim light. “To the Dayman,” he said, his voice hoarse and low. “And to the ones who keep fighting.”

He drank, and the bar roared back to life, the world spinning again. Misaki smiled at Curt, and Curt, for the first time that night, smiled back.

Outside, the neon lights buzzed and flickered, their glow spilling onto the wet and dusky streets on the outskirts of Niihama-shi. Alan stared into his empty glass, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a small, sad smile.

“Good kid,” he muttered to himself, his voice lost in the clamor. “Good kid.”

And the night rolled on, as it always does.