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The club has always been in Youda’s hands. Majima was there unofficially to begin with, so when he apologized, that he might have to stop showing up for a bit because other work was ramping up, everyone understood. He was just doing this to help out, and even in the short time he’d been there, he’d breathed new life into Sunshine.
But Majima didn’t just stop showing up. He completely disappeared, but not without leaving them money, just enough that Youda had an inkling not all of it was legal. One of the girls reminded him that Majima wasn’t legally affiliated with Sunshine to begin with, and he could do whatever he wanted—and besides, even if Youda did want to give the money back, no one knew where to find him.
There were clear instructions with the money, listing all the girls by name with short messages for them; it was enough for many of the girls to support a transition between leaving the club and finding a more stable job if they wanted. For Youda, Majima left enough to keep Sunshine running, a little boost to stay afloat.
Upon interviewing all the other girls in the club, Yuki had come to the conclusion that absolutely no one knew anything about Majima to begin with. Even though a man like him would surely draw attention on the streets, they’d had nothing more to go on other than the fact that he lived somewhere in Soutenbori and had a bit of a Good Samaritan streak. For a time, she keeps her eyes peeled on the streets, on her lunch break during her day job, on the door when customers come in for the night. She finally gets more information when it walks up to her with wads of cash and requests for an extension.
“Cabaret clubs aren’t so bad,” the bigwig says, “especially since the Grand up and left so sudden. They don’t got girls like you there, Yuki-chan!”
She giggles, but there’s something about his words that bother her. “Aw, only coming to see me now that the big cabaret’s closed down?” she asks, pouting the best she can.
“Yuki-chan, Yuki-chan,” the man says, resting his arm on the back of the sofa. “Now I’ve seen the light! No wonder you’re not at the Grand, the manager only has one eye, he wouldn’t be able to see how cute you are!”
Even though Soutenbori is a town rife with organized crime and fighting, there can’t have been many people with one eye that ran cabarets and clubs. She autopilots the rest of the interaction, and she keeps the information at the back of her mind for her entire shift.
When the club’s closing for the night with just Yuki and Youda left, she tells him about what she’s heard.
Youda smacks his forehead. “Of course. He told me he was working at the Grand. Why didn’t we check there first?”
“Doesn’t seem like the Grand’s in great condition though from what I heard. Maybe there’s some trouble around that parts.”
“If it turns out Majima-san’s okay, I wouldn’t want to bring him trouble. We should disguise ourselves, at least.”
A few minutes later, Yuki’s wearing Youda’s suit, complete with wig and fake facial hair, and Youda’s dressed himself in civilian clothes. “So,” Yuki says, testing out a lower voice, “how do I look, Youda-san?”
He snorts. “Don’t quit your day job.”
“This is my night job.”
Yuki thinks they look nondescript when they cling to the shadows. Maybe not together, but individually, she’s sure these costumes would have worked. Luckily enough, the people that walk through Soutenbori are so eccentric that something like this hardly catches the eye for longer than a split second, and—with amicable conversation and theorizing on Majima—they make their way past the bridge to where the Grand is.
Here, they try to be a little more discreet; they find a telephone pole to try and hide behind, but when they settle in to observe, they find that they don’t need it.
Whereas the Grand would be at peak hours on a normal day, the sidewalks too busy to make it through unscathed, the street is almost empty. Deliberately avoided. The sign outside is still flashing, but there are no lights inside. In a place like Soutenbori, where there is endless light and sound, the inside of the Grand looks like a black hole; nothing goes in, nothing escapes.
As she’s about to exit their hiding position, men in business suits exit the Grand with suitcases. Their dress shoes crunch the broken glass underneath their feet, breaking the flashing lights into a million colours. Youda freezes next to her, and they stay silent as the men fade back into the hustle and bustle of the city street.
Even long after they disappear, they don’t dare move. Someone that looks like a floor manager walks out, almost floating over the glass that the earlier men had crushed, cigarette hovering between his fingers and exhaling into the dark night. He doesn't look like he's with the men in suits, or at the very least on their side; every muscle of his body screams defeat, everything except his eyes, still burning with rebellion.
Without saying anything, Yuki and Youda look to each other before walking up to him. The motion catches the floor manager's eye and his hand stutters as he brings the cigarette back to his lips. Still, he doesn’t break eye contact with them, and Yuki can feel the tension growing as the space between them pulls taut.
“What happened to the Grand?” Yuki asks with no preamble. She feels horribly out of place and embarrassed with the dumb costume, and she makes quick work of pulling off the fake beard and taking off the suit jacket, hanging it off her arm. Youda next to her shifts from foot to foot uneasily. This close to the entrance, she can hear no sound coming from within. It feels like the heart has been gouged out of the Grand, this once lively establishment, blood drained from its corpse and leaking out onto the streets.
The floor manager is looking right at her, not saying a word, before he closes his eyes. “Everyone knows the Grand’s run by yakuza,” he says, voice rusty. Upon closer inspection, she sees bruises fluttering beneath his collarbone. “Or at least had ties to it. Manager was ex-yakuza, and his boss was yakuza. So some muscle from Omi Alliance shows up, like it’s yakuza all the way down.”
“So... Majima-san was yakuza?” Yuki asks, as if she didn’t already have an inkling of what the answer to that would be.
“Ex. His boss turned up dead three days ago. Shot in the head, set partly in cement, stuck down the river.” The blood freezes in Yuki’s veins, and she can tell the same thing is happening to Youda. “As for me, I’ve got nothing to do with it. Think these guys just like cleaning up, picking meat from the bones. I’ve got nowhere to go since most of our girls already found somewhere else as soon as they saw Majima-han’s boss on the news. Don't know why I'm telling you folks this. Enjoy the free information."
“We’re the cabaret club, Sunshine—Majima-san helped us out a lot while when he could,” Youda says, quietly, unsure.
The floor manager huffs out smoke, testing it in the air. He laughs. “Seems like the type. He looked like a real bastard, but he was one of the kindest people I knew, even if it was in his own roundabout way.”
Yuki sits down next to the floor manager on the steps, Youda next to her. She takes the offered smoke—of course Majima was ex-yakuza. Hell, he seemed like he was current yakuza, and now Majima could be dead. Majima could have never been seen again, and she’d never get a chance to thank him for everything.
Youda puts a hand over the one not holding the cigarette, and she realizes she’s shaking. With a deep inhale, exhale, her mouth forms the question, “Do you think Majima-san is dead?”
Crime, especially violent crime, isn't a particularly rare occurrence in Soutenbori. But it's striking to have been so close to someone neck-deep in danger, and even moreso at the possibility that he's dead. Youda looks like he’s about to cry. He’s always been a soft man deep inside, and Yuki admires him all the more for it—that he stood up to the Five Stars for so long before Majima even came around, even though he wasn’t someone who could throw his weight around without thinking about it.
“Miss—he didn’t skip a single day of work. Showed up early, left late. The only time he’d ever miss a shift for any period of time was when he had a call from his boss. Kinda got the sense he was always trapped here. Always seemed like a man too big for this life. Of course”—he pauses, trying to find the right words—“for about a week before he disappeared, he’d stopped showing up. I remember tellin’ him he got a call from his boss, and from then on he’d only show up for opening shifts and then head off somewhere, and then he stopped showing up altogether.”
Yuki thinks of Majima—smile always appearing on his face like the knife of a switchblade, the colour bursting against his skin whenever he bowed just a little too lowly, the fucking eyepatch. She’d be stupid to not think he was yakuza at least once. His past was a constant topic of conversations for the girls in the backroom.
But—
She thinks of the Majima that fussed over their makeup, picked out new dresses for her and the other girls, was diligent in their conversations, was so concerned for her that he and Youda followed to make sure she didn't end up in a relationship with a guy that didn't treat her what she was worth. She thinks of how he did this for every other girl, how—according to the floor manager’s timeline—he’d helped out Sunshine when he was already managing another club, how the weariness in his face seemed to disappear for even a moment when everyone started pestering him about something or another, when for other bosses it would be the complete opposite.
“Hell of a guy,” the floor manager says, breaking her reverie. “Wherever he is, I sure as hell hope he’s livin’ the life he’s meant to be. But, listen, fellas—I gotta get goin’ home. The Grand isn’t gonna be up for much longer, at least not under my watch. Probably gonna be fully in Omi hands again. You ever been inside?”
Both of them shake their heads.
Taking a drag, the floor manager sighs before throwing the cigarette onto the ground, twisting it under his heel. "At the very least, it seems like you really did know Majima-han, and—hell. I don’t have attachment to this building anymore. I’ll at least give you a tour. It ain't pretty though, I'll imagine they'll renovate it soon.”
He stands up and stretches, making his way to the entrance without looking to see if Yuki and Youda are following. They look at each other briefly and, with nothing left to lose, they follow him inside.
Barely any of the lights are on, but Yuki can still tell that this was a magnificent place to be in. She imagines Majima standing in front of the stage, a lively band playing music as he addresses the crowd, every single booth filled.
She takes a step inside and the illusion shatters. The floor is sticky under her borrowed dress shoes, and there are broken champagne bottles everywhere. Scorch marks, upturned tables, notch marks from blades and knives in what once must have been pristine wood.
The floor manager runs a hand over the charred tables, still not looking back at them. His voice echoes even in the dilapidated state of the building, and Yuki is absolutely convinced that a man like Majima could have commanded the entire city if he stood at the front of this hall. “Probably could have kept running the Grand, but as soon as the staff recognized that body from the river, it was over for all of them. They all up and left real fast.”
“Why’s the Omi angry at you specifically?” Youda asks from beside Yuki, head craned to look at the high ceilings.
“Other than just being the only one left? Burnt all the staff’s papers and official documents saying they were working here. After the first night those lowlives showed up, I started a fire in the staff room. Not sure what Majima-han would have done, but I like to think he’d’ve done the same, or at least tried to help the staff. Weren’t always the easiest people to work with, but, hell. We all deserve to live a life without something yappin’ at our heels.” The floor manager walks away from them quietly and sits in a booth right in front of the stage, propping his feet up on the table. “You ever hear what Majima-han was like at this club?” he asks as an afterthought, voice carrying to where they’re standing.
“Not really,” Youda says, sliding into the booth next to him. Yuki follows suit.
“You call yourself a cabaret club manager and you don’t know anything about the Grand? Soutenbori’s lord of the night, Majima Goro. Real snake charmer, that guy. Restraint like diamonds—whatever the hell he’s holding out for, I hope he’s got it.” The floor manager launches into stories of customer service and Majima’s seemingly endless patience, his almost inhuman ability for defusing situations, his charisma in every situation where even the greatest of men would falter.
In turn, Youda tells the story of Sunshine, how it was basically rebuilt from the ground up with nothing but a man with one eye and some free time. Yuki tells him of the man she considered like an older brother, how he always had a flair for the stylish and knew just how to treat people exactly how they needed to be treated.
The floor manager procures a bottle of champagne and keeps the drinks flowing as the stories become more and more enthusiastic, in remembrance of a man who was dead—and even if he weren't dead, if they were to meet again, he would surely not be the same person they knew.
Time passes as a blur inside, and with only a slight wobble, the floor manager sighs and stands up. “This’ll be the last time I ever see Soutenbori. Gonna try making a run for it. Don’t know how far I’ll get. Don’t got any family left, anyway, so all I can do now is hope the others are safe.”
“Thanks for talking with us,” Yuki says. Her voice feels far away, not from her own chest, weighed down with sharing stories and learning things about Majima Goro. Youda only nods, and she knows he’s feeling much the same. The interaction has reached its natural lull anyway, and it’s almost a relief that they can stop trading stories; the more they talked, the less they all realized they knew.
“Godspeed,” Youda says, half smile on his lips. “At the very least, it’s nice to know that Majima-san was cared for elsewhere.”
“Likewise. Seems like he had more fun over at Sunshine, anyway. Maybe I’ll drop by before I leave, but I don’t wanna implicate you guys.”
“If you ever need a place to stay...” Yuki starts, not knowing how to end it. The floor manager raises his hand to stop her.
“Thanks, miss, but I’ve already decided. Live a good life,” he says, and with no fanfare, he walks down the aisles of the Grand, soon to disappear into the mosaic of Soutenbori.
“Oh, god, it’s them again,” Yuki’s friend mutters. Yuki peeks around her frame to try and see what the commotion is, but all she can see is the regular collection of flashy but otherwise expected characters. “Might be a little too much to ask for a quiet night in Kamurocho—you’ve worked in a big city like this before, haven’t you?”
“More or less,” Yuki says, distracted by the spectacle. It’s been almost a decade now since her time in Soutenbori, since she’d finally managed to get out of that city and lived somewhere a little more “respectable,” a bit more middle class. Office worker might not have been her first choice, but it’s stable, and she's at least not in as much danger of being harassed both in work and out. “Kinda nostalgic being here.”
“You guys get all these random fights between the yakuza too? Can't get a damn night of peace around here,” Noriko grumbles, resignation clear in her voice. She makes no move to walk the other direction or even avoid the spectacle, instead leaning against one of the brick walls, finally allowing Yuki a clear line of sight.
She doesn't spend much time in big cities these days, but whenever she does, she'll be first to admit she still looks out for a man with one eye, someone kind yet larger than life all at once. It's the only reason she's even remotely curious about any yakuza she passes by, regardless of the chaos they've caused around the cities she's lived.
Without Noriko in the way, she sees a tall man with broad shoulders in a red button-up and a suit that she can’t tell is really, really dirty white or just a really ugly grey. With him alone, she wouldn’t even have known there was a fight going on, but the other person goading him into something practically screams yakuza, with his steel-tipped shoes, ugly snakeskin jacket, eyepatch over the left eye—
“Huh,” she says, more to herself than to anyone else. “How common are eyepatches these days?”
“Wanna ask him yourself?” Noriko snorts. Yuki barely hears it over her own thoughts, old memories resurfacing of a young man who must have been around her age but always carrying the weight of something on his shoulders. Memories of a young man who brought Sunshine together in the first place, invisible stitches that have long since healed over, leaving them more or less whole. A young man whose absence put her and Ai together, made the girls—and Youda—a web of support for each other, still meeting regularly when they can.
A young man they never talk about.
When Noriko's question finally registers in her mind, she snorts. Of course she wants to ask him herself. Majima's always seemed like the kind of man that wouldn't die so easily—and they never found a body, not that she'd thought about it in a long, long time. It's a sign, if anything.
She pushes up off the wall and Noriko grabs her arm and pulls her back. “Hold up, what the hell are you doing?”
“Asking him,” she says simply, and brushes her hand off. “You suggested it.”
“Are you insane?” Noriko nearly screams, and Yuki shrugs.
“Just got a hunch,” she says, beginning a light jog across the wide street. Before Noriko can say anything else, as the snakeskin jacket man opens his mouth, Yuki yells. “Majima-san!”
The man in the grey suit stares at her immediately, his gaze stopping her dead in her tracks. She thinks that maybe this was a bad idea—the weight and power behind his eyes alone should have killed her on the spot right there, but she can’t look away.
"Lady, can't ya see I'm a li'l busy here?" Snakeskin Jacket man asks, lolling his head sideways to look at her from the corner of his eye instead of turning around. His voice is musical in the most grating way, leaving her no choice but to follow his words up and down, strung along for the ride. He moves slowly, everything in the motion screaming wrong person, wrong place, wrong time, and with a melodramatic sigh, the man pivots around to face her. He's resting a beat-up silver bat across his shoulders, and she's really hoping that's rust instead of dried blood on the end, but the dents in it aren't promising.
Yuki thinks she's gotten into something maybe out of her league. It wouldn't be the first time—she didn’t crawl out of Soutenbori without barrelling through every obstacle and questionable decision she’s made—but with the way the two men are looking at her, she's wondering if it'll maybe be her last.
"I—wrong person," she says, stepping backwards. The man in the grey-white suit makes a movement as if to step towards her, and her eyes widen.
“Wait—" Snakeskin Jacket throws up a hand to his opponent, and suddenly he's rushing over, right into her personal space, the bat clattering on the ground behind him. "You—Yuki-chan?” Snakeskin Jacket asks, barely above a whisper, and it breaks the spell. She vaguely registers that the man in the suit is looking at Snakesk—Majima with curiosity, and her smile blooms so wide across her face she can already feel her cheeks hurting.
Without any warning, she throws herself straight into his arms. He's knocked back a few steps, and he smells like sweat and cigarettes and something sour, different and the same all at once. When she lets go, she really takes a look at him. He’s got a tattoo swirling over his two shoulders that surely continues onto his back. Behind him, the man in the suit isn't quite sure how to act.
“Majima-san, what’s wrong with you? Guess you can only dress girls, huh?” she scolds in an attempt to bite down her discomfort, arms on her hips and huffing in exaggeration. He looks disoriented. It makes him look younger, like the manager she remembers. She laughs and pinches his cheeks. “You need a stylist of your own, y’know? You used to be able to dress us so well.”
Snapped out of his line of thought, Majima says, “Hey, hey, this is a well-crafted look, ya know!” There’s something weird about the cadence of his voice, far from what she remembers. Mostly forced. Almost manic. It makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. He coughs and rubs the back of his neck as an afterthought, and the tilt of his head casts long shadows on his face, as if he were trying to hide. The words that come out are still heavy in his mouth, a little more forceful than Yuki remembers, but less aggressive than before. “Every single piece of clothin’ here today has somethin’ to say!”
“What, all two pieces of it? You know what it’s telling me? It’s telling me you need serious fashion help, Majima-san!” It’s easier to fall into the pattern they used to have like this, playful scolding and, in their own way, doting on each other.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay,” he says, waving a hand. But he’s smiling, and it’s the same smile she remembers, and that’s what shows his age now. He has laugh lines around his eyes, but Yuki has the distinct feeling that they weren’t carved out with the smile she’s being shown now. Instead, they’ve been dug out by the same manic look, the one that’s slowly falling away as they talk. “The hell are you doin’ here?”
“Here with a friend”—she points over her shoulder to Noriko, who freezes like a deer in headlights before raising a hand quickly—“but gonna be here for a few more days. We should catch up, Majima-san!”
At a loss, Majima looks around quickly, holding eye contact with the man in the suit. After a split second of consideration, he steps away from the middle of the street, making her follow him so that they’re underneath the flashing lights of a pachinko building. It’s always been funny to her that the most private places in these big cities are in plain sight, when the lights and colours flash so fast that anyone passing by only gets snapshots of people, a zoetrope of urbanicity.
Majima looks like he’s searching for something, quickly in the crowd, and when he looks satisfied, he responds. “I mean—now that you’re seen with me, ya might not wanna stick around Kamurocho for any longer.” He probably means for that to sound like a threat, but Yuki’s heard that voice before, and she just clicks her tongue.
“Why not?” She asks. If anything, her extended time in Soutenbori has just made her even more stubborn, as much as it seems to have turned Majima even more... unhinged. “Besides, I’ll need more than a few days to fix this disaster.”
“What disaster?” He avoids the question, and she plays along.
“You, Majima-san—really, who let you walk anywhere dressed like this? I’ll call Ai out tomorrow, she’s around too, and since Saki’s in the area—”
“Don’t,” Majima says, grabbing her wrist suddenly.
Yuki’s seen him defend the girls, Youda, the club itself. She’s seen him throw down enemies and perverts for them over and over, and even all of that couldn’t prepare her for the intensity in his eye, how her wrist is trapped absolutely in his grasp, and she stutters a half step back out of fear.
It doesn’t escape his attention. He lets go immediately, reorienting himself. He takes a deep breath and looks at a point above her. “Yuki-chan, I ain’t the person you remember. Never really was.”
She considers this. She considers Kamurocho and all its turf wars and yakuza crawling from every corner, how much it reminded her of Soutenbori. She considers the man in the grey suit that’s since lit a cigarette and leaning against a tree looking away pointedly, but not distractedly, eyes sharp and scanning every passerby walking in her and Majima’s direction.
Most of all, she considers Majima—how he never divulged anything about his past in his short time at Club Sunshine, but always carried incredible charisma. The powerful lines of his body only emphasized with age, his fierce protectiveness over anyone he considered close to him. She considers the tattoo winding around his shoulder, the bat on the ground. “Dunno,” she says. “You still seem like the same good man to me, Majima-san.” She feels a small smile creep across her face, bittersweet, because she’s not even sure how much she believes that for herself.
But she’s stubborn.
It clearly throws Majima for a loop, if only for half a second. He puts a gloved hand on her head and messes up her hair before bringing her back in for a hug against his chest. “This is why ya always got in trouble with men, y’know,” she feels more than hears him say.
“At least gimme your number,” she bargains once she steps away, digging through her purse. “I’ll send you pictures of the girls. You’re the one that brought us all together, anyway. I won’t say I ran into you. Pinky promise.”
He remains expressionless as she hands him her cellphone, but he gives up and keys something in. “Well, Yuki-chan, here ya go. Don’t make me regret trusting you.” He says it as a joke, but there’s something sharp in his tone, something that was never used against her or any of the other girls, and she almost falters.
Until Majima brings them in and he takes a selfie, making a stupid face. She can’t help but laugh as she gets her phone back, immediately setting it as his contact picture.
He puts a hand against her back and pushes her forward, urging her to walk back to where they were previously. His voice regains some of its volume as he warns, “Now scram. Might wanna take a shower too. I’ve been crawlin’ in sewers all day. Nasty Kamurocho stuff.”
“He’s not kidding,” the man in the suit says. He takes out a pack and offers a cigarette to her, and the gesture is absurd because of how far away he’s standing. “The amount of times he’s popped up underneath a pothole just to get a jump on me is ridiculous.”
Majima laughs beside her in response, and it’s got the same sourness to it that Yuki doesn’t know from him, something that makes his lip curl in something unsettling. Unkind. He takes two cigarettes from the man in the suit and hands one to her, offering to light it. She hasn’t smoked in years. It’s not something she can do now, and maybe that alone is enough to strike the line between who she was then and who she is now. Who Majima was then and who he is now.
“Majima-san—”
He raises his hand to stop her. His eye is closed, and there’s something in the lines of his face as he exhales smoke that reminds her it’s been almost twenty years since they’ve known each other for a grand total of two weeks. “Yuki-chan, please don’t make me ask ya again,” he says, low and steady and tired. “Or I might hafta cause a scene to get ya outta here. We know that shit ain’t pretty—”
“Thank you. For everything.” It spills out, and she can’t stop. “Whenever we—the girls and I, and Youda, we still meet up—whenever we complain about work—we never say anything, because we all think you're dead, y'know? Bygones be bygones. But I still think you're one of the best bosses I ever had, one of the only men in my life that really cared about me. And I know the other girls think so too, even though we never talk about it. Youda made me the godmother of his first child, and we joke that he’ll have a hundred kids if he didn’t want the rest of the girls to get jealous of me. Ai and I named our dog after you 'cause we couldn't think of anything, and since Youda wouldn’t name his kid after you, even though we were just joking, and—thank you,” she finishes, lamely.
All she gets is an eyebrow raise and a small smile creeping up, before the glint of his teeth flash in the Kamurocho light. Like the broken glass outside the Grand from all those years ago, the ones that crunched under her and Youda's shoes as they walked back to the Sunshine that night. There's something funny here, something he won't tell her, like some sort of inside joke she could never even hope to guess. “A dog, huh.”
“It’s a Jack Russell Terrier. Loud thing. Always running around." Takes care of us, she doesn't add, always a little protective, but she has a feeling she doesn't have to.
Silence settles between them as Majima smiles. She’s not even sure if he knows he’s smiling, but it looks the way she feels right now. Bittersweet. Almost regretful. It's this look now that she remembers the most—one she always saw after closing, when he would step outside for a breather and thought no one would notice. It was the same one that evaporated whenever she managed to catch him outside, leaving behind something a little more guarded. “Well, ya can’t stay out here and keep Gorogoro-chan waitin’, can ya? He’s probably hungry, ya been out so long.”
“You’re probably right. Maybe I should get going,” Yuki says, and—out of habit—she gives him a thumbs-up. He immediately responds in kind, and it makes her burst out in laughter. “See you around, Majima-san!”
“Hope you don’t,” he says, in the same joking tone. “Or it’ll be trouble for you, Yuki-chan!”
“You’ll be the one in real trouble if I ever see you again and you’re still in the same awful outfit!” Even though these are parting words, Yuki still keeps her eyes on Majima.
He says nothing back.
She's only taken a few steps back to Noriko when she finds that she can’t look at him and at the man in the suit anymore. The colours are blurring together, losing focus, and she brings up a hand to her eyes to wipe away the wetness. And so, steeling herself, she turns around and doesn’t look back.
Unknown
Is this Yuki-san?
I'm Nishida.
The boss – Majima-san – told me vaguely about you.
I don’t ask questions, but I figure I’d let you know
that it’s my number you have. The boss doesn’t
have his own phone.
He also tells me this is confidential.
Not that I’d go around blabbing his secrets,
you think he’d know me well enough by now...
In any case,
he says you’re free to send updates about your life.
You just have to deal with the fact that it’ll
be sent to me. His words, not mine.
Yuki
Hello, Nishida-san ( ﾉ ´ з `) ノ
Please show him this picture of me and my girlfriend’s dog.
It’s named after him.
[IMG-194406.png]
[IMG-194407.png]
Nishida
Um, Yuki-san...
These are blurry photos of you and another young woman
eating at a food stall somewhere in Soutenbori.
Nishida
Boss says it looks delicious, though.
And that “Ai-chan looks great as ever,
even though it’s blurry”.
Yuki
What?!
Was that all he said?!
Nishida
Yes...
Yuki
( ＃ `Д´)
(` 皿 ´ ＃ )