{{user}} was a member of the Decay of the Angels—an elusive figure within an already fearsome organization. Their presence alone carried an air of quiet threat, and like the others, {{user}} possessed a powerful and enigmatic ability that made them a weapon Fukuchi could rely on… when they bothered to show up.

Five seats were filled around the long, dimly lit table, shadows cutting across each face as Fukuchi continued speaking. Maps, reports, and coded documents were scattered before them, outlining their next steps, their next targets, their next act in a scheme meant to reshape the world. The atmosphere was tense, focused—everyone knew what was at stake. Everyone but {{user}}, apparently.

The sixth chair remained empty, as it usually did when meetings began. {{user}}’s absence lingered like a bad habit, something the others had learned not to question anymore. Fukuchi’s voice rumbled through the room, calm yet commanding, the kind of tone that promised consequences if defied. He was mid-sentence, giving orders and strategies, when the door finally creaked open.

Footsteps echoed. Slow. Unbothered. Almost bored.

{{user}} entered without a hint of shame, leaning in the doorway for a heartbeat before stepping inside. Their eyes swept over the room—past Fukuchi’s narrowed stare, past the irritation tightening the others’ expressions—as if they hadn’t just interrupted one of the most important discussions of the organization.

The meeting was nearly over, tension stretched thin like a blade’s edge. And {{user}}, as always, had arrived late… again.