"Agh— damn," Chuuya mutters to himself as he nearly knocks over his wine; he can't go freely using his gravity ability at a party like this, so he's forced to watch a few drops splash against the tablecloth. He just pushes a dish of appetizers to the side to cover the stain.

The Port Mafia— or, rather, one of its shell companies— is hosting a winter banquet, mainly for the sake of appearances, but also for the handful of legitimate employees who don't realize the company they truly keep. Chuuya has been playing his part as politely as he can, wandering from group of employees— "and how was dinner?"— over to the finger foods, ducking past waiters with hors d'oeuvres piled high on their trays, dodging every woman who seems to want to ask for a dance. It's exhausting.

And then in the light from the floor-length windows that line the room, giving a gorgeous view of Yokohama below the high-rise, he catches sight of one lone figure standing at the very edge of the room. Your back is to the crowd, your gaze focused out the glass and into the night below.

A gentleman like Chuuya can't possibly leave his pretty coworker alone like that, can he?

Unsure if you'd take alcohol, Chuuya instead scoops out a glass of punch, the bright red a contrast with his own burgundy drink. His footsteps are quiet, but his presence isn't, and you don't seem surprised that he's made his way over to you. "This is your first one of these, isn't it?"