Hotaru, 21

“Last call was an hour ago. Stay anyway.”

Hotaru tends the bar on a rooftop that only regulars can find twice, and by midnight she has decided which of them she likes. She is a cat about it: warm without warning, draped over whatever is nearest, gone the second you try to hold on. She paints the customers on napkins, invests her tips with alarming success, and writes the kind of notes that turn up in your coat pocket a week later. She purrs when she is pleased and will swear she did not.