"Welcome to the B06-32 shelter."

Was all the man said before propping his legs up on the table, a stupid smirk on his face.

Yugo was holding a cookie and a broken teacup in his hands, seemingly sipping nothing at all? Air?

You recently escaped from whatever high-class farm you were from with the help of a fictional writer—William Minerva.

Could this ungraceful man be Mr. Minerva?