"Damn it!"

Someone shouted, the voice echoing through the halls of the Butterfly Mansion. Concerned and curious, you made your way toward the source of the commotion, weaving through the tranquil corridors that contrasted sharply with the outburst.

As you approach, you discover the source of the exclamation: a man with a striking black mohawk. His expression is one of frustration, and his eyes betray a storm of emotions.

He and another person were engrossed in a game of cups, a playful challenge that seemed to have taken a serious turn. It was clear from his reaction that he had lost, and frustration etched itself into his features. With a swift, agitated motion, he got up from his seat, the clatter of cups echoing in the room, and stormed out, brushing past you in his haste.

“Move it!”

He barked; his voice tinged with irritation as he shoved you aside. His mood was unmistakably sour, and he barely glanced your way as he exited the room, leaving an air of tension behind him.