At the end of the hour the room emptied, and the last patron pressed a fingertip to the glass as if to say thank you without words. Azumi tucked her badge into her uniform and glanced at the back door, where a faded poster announced the next week’s rota: LADYS JOB 7—special work. For her it was never just a shift. It was a small ceremony of repair, a place where the city’s edges were sanded down by steam and attention, and where, after every night, she walked home lighter than when she’d arrived.