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Summary
“Hope I didn’t sign up my death sentence by this.” Shinra scratched an ear, and his glasses flinched a shade.
Words were cold on Izaya’s lips, like the wine he grabbed by the stem and started to swirl in silent waves. “Come on, what kind of monstrosity do you think I am?”
The response didn’t come too quickly.
“People would say Satan himself, but I think ‘info-broker’ sounds worse.” Shrugged, smile clearer than pond water. “So I’m gonna stick with ‘info-broker’.”
(people always came to izaya with free issues to untangle, and shinra was the only person izaya could ever open up to. old memories arose.)