**Musutafu, "Moonlit Whiskers" jazz bar**
The rain had softened to a whisper against the windows as they slipped inside. The bar was a hidden gem: dim amber lights, polished wood, and a slow, smoky saxophone that wrapped around every corner like velvet. No hero spotlights, no flashing cameras—just the kind of place where secrets felt safe.
Nemuri had traded her battle-worn costume for something dangerously simple: black turtleneck hugging her curves, leather pants that caught the light with every step, her long coat slung over one shoulder like she owned the night. Her purple hair hung in damp, wild waves, lipstick slightly smudged from the fight, giving her that perfectly imperfect, just-kissed look.
Yamcha followed her to the deepest corner booth, sliding in opposite her. His black jacket was still damp, jeans faded from years (or lifetimes) of wear, but the way he moved—confident, almost predatory—made the whole room feel smaller, warmer.
The waitress set down their drinks without a word: steaming jasmine tea for him, whiskey neat for her, amber liquid catching the low light like liquid fire.
Nemuri lifted her glass first, eyes locked on his.
"To the man who walked out of the shadows and saved me from eighty idiots… without even asking for a reward."
Yamcha's lips curved into that slow, dangerous smile.
"I figured the view across the table was reward enough." His gaze drifted deliberately down her neck, then back up. "Though I wouldn't say no to more."
She laughed—low, throaty, the sound that could make lesser men blush.
"Bold. I like bold."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing the space between them until he could smell the faint jasmine of her skin mixed with the whiskey on her breath.
"So tell me, mystery man… Yamcha. No last name. No license. No fear. You fight like you were born in a warzone. How old are you really?"
He took a slow sip of tea, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her lean in more.
"Old enough to know better," he said quietly. "Young enough to still want trouble."
Her foot brushed his under the table—deliberate, teasing.
"Trouble like me?"
"Especially like you."
Another laugh, softer this time. She twirled the glass between her fingers.
"I want a story. One of those impossible ones you hinted at in the alley. The kind that makes a woman want to stay up all night listening… and maybe more."
Yamcha set his cup down. His expression shifted—something raw flickered behind the cocky grin. He leaned in too, voice dropping to a husky murmur.
"Alright. But this one… this one still hurts sometimes."
He stared into his tea like it held ghosts.
"There was a kid once. Small. Loud. Tail like a monkey's. Goku. He was… everything I wasn't. Pure power wrapped in innocence. One night the full moon rose, huge and silver, and it woke something ancient inside him. He transformed. Became a monster. Giant ape—towering, roaring, eyes glowing red with mindless rage. Buildings crumbled under his feet. The ground shook."
Nemuri's breath caught. She didn't interrupt.
"I was there. With Bulma—the girl who meant the world to me back then—and Oolong, our cowardly pig friend. We were trapped. The beast was coming straight for us. One step and we'd be nothing but red smears on the dirt. I froze for a second… thinking this was it. This was how I'd die. Forgotten. Second best again."
His voice cracked just slightly—enough to make her heart twist.
"But I couldn't let that happen. Not to them. So I waited. Watched the monster rear back. And then… my friend Puar—he could shape-shift. Turned into a sword. Sharp. Perfect. I grabbed him, climbed the fur of that raging beast like it was a damn mountain. The wind screamed in my ears, the smell of blood and destruction everywhere. I reached the base of the tail. One clean, trembling cut."
He made a small slicing motion with his hand, eyes distant.
"The power snapped. Like a string cut on a guitar. The giant shrank in seconds—back to the small, unconscious boy lying in the dirt. We lived. Because I didn't run. Because for once… I was fast enough. Strong enough."
Silence hung heavy between them.
Nemuri reached across the table, her fingers sliding over his knuckles, then lacing through his.
"You climbed a raging monster… cut its tail with a transformed friend… just to save the people you loved." Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "That's not just heroic. That's heartbreakingly beautiful."
Yamcha looked at their joined hands, then up at her. His thumb brushed slowly over her skin.
"I've lost a lot since then. Friends. Pride. Lives. But that night… that night I got something right."
She leaned even closer, lips inches from his.
"And now you're here. Saving me. Looking at me like I'm the only thing in this damn city worth seeing."
He tilted his head, voice low and rough.
"Maybe you are."
Her free hand rose, fingertips tracing the scar on his cheek—gentle, curious.
"Tell me, Yamcha… what does a man like you want after a lifetime of almost dying for others?"
He caught her wrist softly, pulling her hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to her knuckles.
"Right now? I want to stop talking… and start finding out what happens when a wolf and a midnight finally get some time alone."
Nemuri's eyes darkened with heat.
"Careful," she whispered, smiling wickedly. "I bite."
"Good," he murmured back, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. "I've always liked a little danger."
The saxophone played on. The rain kept falling.
And in that small, warm booth, two battle-scarred souls edged closer to something neither had expected to find.