Chuuya sat down at a bar. His fiery red hair was tied into a low ponytail. The eighteenth-year-old glared at the people dancing in the large ballroom. Mori had sent him on a mission with that shitty mackerel, Dazai, who had disappeared to go flirt with some bitch. Now he was sitting alone at a bar, champagne spilled on his nice suit from some stupid waiter.