Kazama Tatsuya pushed open the private room door, and four or five burly men with fierce scowls simultaneously turned their heads. They were dressed in bright red waiter's uniforms and greeted with a menacing tone, "Welcome."
Fushimi Roku sat in the south, facing north, occupying the head seat. He reclined against the chair back, trimming his nails with a nail clipper; Minamoto Tamako sat beside him, like a mascot, peeling an orange on the table with her small hands.
The private room was filled with warmth; both had taken off their uniforms and hung them on the coat rack.
Kazama Tatsuya was taken aback. Among the group, he recognized several familiar faces, one of whom seemed like a wanted fugitive... What was this about? Was this really just a dinner meeting?
"Sit down," Fushimi Roku blew on his nails and invited, "Make yourself at home."
Kazama Tatsuya sat down across from the two with a stern expression, saying nothing. He could tell that Fushimi Roku was again up to no good.
