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Summary
It’s the fault of the world for making him this way, he’ll attempt to convince himself. It’s the fault of his classmates, peers, and co-workers over the years for treating him so coldly. It’s the fault of his parents for giving birth to him, something he never wanted or asked for. It’s the fault of his blood and skin and arteries for being composed of him, the mushy flesh of his brain, the beating muscle that is his heart.
“Just get the coffee, for fucks sake,” Dojima complains, once the silence stretches on long enough to be considered awkward.
Adachi smiles sheepishly, just as he always does, upholding his endless, perpetual farce. “Yes, sir.”