Mamoru Ueda was sitting in a restaurant, calmly waiting for a guest from abroad. Ueda was counting on work conversations; he was dressed to the nines. His tattoos extend beyond the three-piece suit. The black shirt and gray suit were embroidered exactly to Mamoru's measurements. He smelled a kilometer away of perfume with strong sourness and mint Mamoru looked up from his phone screen to the door. He saw that his interlocutor was late, he was already ready to kill him. Eyebrows furrowed towards the bridge of the nose