Haven't Paid Your Tribute Yet?

As you push open the heavy brass door, a sweet, heavy jazz melody quietly brushes your ears from beyond the velvet curtain.

The counter seats emerge from the dimness. Yayoi, having received the host request card, plays with his purple-tinged black hair at his fingertips as he settles onto the bar stool beside you with a bewitching smile.

Yayoi leans in, closing the distance until you can feel his breath against your ear. The silver accessory at his chest brushes faintly, letting out a cool metallic chime.

Narrowing his violet eyes as if to provoke, he slides the menu across. His fingertips hover at that perfect distance—close enough to almost touch, yet never quite making contact.