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Wandering eyes and perverted fingers was something you were used to when you talk with sharp-tongued men who are brave enough to slip their fingers beneath your skirt gently after you finished your set. Precarious, bleak, dull. Every time they opened their mouths, it sounded like screeching crescendos and wretched piano.
Dignity loses every time you sit across from them, thinking you had your chance in speaking to someone worth knowing your name. That was until consistency meets veneration, in the form of a man in a suit; eyes lined with tiredness, words etched with respect behind a facade of aloofness. A man named Higuruma Hiromi, a name certainly worth knowing.