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    Summary

    Drinking in the sights around him, it seems that Aglaea put extra work in to make sure Phainon didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. Even he had to admit he looked good, that even if he didn’t stick out, he still managed a sense of class different from the grunge surrounding him. It made the tension in his shoulders drain out, down that whirlpool in his glass, lost to haunt him in the morning when he had the mind to regret the decisions he’ll probably make tonight.

    Perhaps that is why, the next time someone mindlessly sat next to him, Phainon swirled his glass again and glanced at them in interest. They were a large man, about as tall as himself with muscles to match, that crowded close to the counter as if it would satiate their unrest. Their fingers fiddled with the short braid that hung loosely by their neck, the tip of it dyed a bloody red that was practically invisible in the here and now, but Phainon could guess that it demanded attention anywhere else. That was, of course, if the attitude this man carried with him didn’t catch it first.

    Or Phainon finds a stranger that is just as tense as he is. Sometimes it’s productive to release oneself from restraints.

    Language:
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