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    Summary

    Usually the air here has the barest hint of a bite to it, the slight salty scent of the Adriatic Sea that winnows ever-present through the seams of Venice. This particular morning, in this particular place, that salt is blotted out with blood and expended cordite, one of which lingers and one of which doesn't.

    In which Giorno cleans up the aftermath of White Album while feeling approximately five different things at once, and Mista bleeding everywhere isn't helping any of them.

    Alternatively; the scenario where Narancia waited ten minutes.

    Language:
    English
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