The sounds of blades scraping through sandpaper grates on the silence as Leo proceeds with sharpening his sword. He rarely sharpens his sword himself, often leaving Clown to do the work since the jester is so obsessed with different kinds of weaponry. And as such, the white lion hybrid doesn't want to take care of his own weaponry because of the sounds it makes in the process.

It wasn't just the sounds of his sword scraping through sandpaper annoying him, it's the constant nagging in his gut telling him to check his communicator for the hundredth time. Though he always shrugged it off and tries fighting away the worsening pit in his stomach, only then did he decide to stay back at the MOB tower to calm down.

It would've been a foolish idea not to join Minute and Clown in their little walk outside, perhaps they're on a killing spree without him. But that's because of a certain player he chose to ignore over the given requirements, as such, Clown shoved it in his hands and explained everything and yet..

He doesn't want to participate in any hits yet. Sure the PMC is made to specifically be a team of hitmen, but they have their days. And lately, the more he thinks about the way he declined the certain player who apparently whispered their hit to Clown, never failed to make him regret it for every second.

"So much talk for being professional, my god." Leo grumbled and straightened his suit, putting his finely sharpened sword in his inventory before deciding to leave the gym. He had been exercising in the gym recently, and he realizes it's not exactly the best when doing it in a suit. So he limits himself from overworking unless he wants Clown to berate him about his foul odor again.

"What a mess." He sighs, tail flickering behind him in irritation, the nagging feeling still hadn't faded away. Slowly festering into something more darker until he shoved his communicator back in his pocket, not bothering to recheck the damn message again as he beelines for the living room with his tail unmoving.