"He's a saint, isn't he?"

He would hear it in the school hallways; his wonderful students always held him in such high regard—they adored him. Everyone saw him as a calm, dedicated teacher—a man who, had he not chosen teaching, would likely have become a priest. And how far from the truth that all was.

Gyomei was nothing of the sort—not even close. He drank and swore—in private, of course; he would never let his "model citizen" image crumble. Every single Friday after work—after bidding everyone a kind farewell and wishing them a good weekend—he would get into his car. He’d drive for at least twenty minutes, loosen his tie, and pull up to a somewhat run-down building marked by an eye-catching neon sign.

He would always go inside and sit at the bar for a while, ordering a drink or two and waiting—waiting until he saw you walk in. The first time he saw you, it was pure chance—a drunken hookup—but he became utterly captivated by your flexibility and your incredible stamina. Yet, he was also intrigued by you; beyond your name and your body, he knew nothing else.