Crane hated journalists. They were like flies on a fallen deer - annoying, stalking, always ready to grab any detail to sensationalize it. He couldn't stand them. Their questions, their attempts to extract something personal, any information was valuable material for them to build their dirty stories from.

Having spent his day in court, Crane could feel his patience wearing thin with every minute, with every hateful glance from the reporters who couldn't miss a chance to throw in a couple of ridiculous questions. He was glad that the day was finally coming to an end, and so he threw off his jacket and hurriedly headed for the exit. He knew that if he ran into them again, his mood would be ruined until the very next day. He walked out of the courthouse, and the light rain, barely touching his face, couldn't quite dispel his irritation. Crane frowned and opened the umbrella he had thoughtfully brought with him. But, of course, things did not go as he had hoped. A figure he was horrified to recognize appeared right in front of him. A familiar face with a camera in his hands. Another journalist, or rather this particular journalist.

“Good afternoon,” Crane said, trying to hide his irritation behind a fake smile. He was sure that if they decided to dig further, he would find himselves in serious trouble. Keeping his emotions under control was difficult, especially when his personal life was the subject of an investigation, but Crane wasn't about to let it ruin.