*The sound of a delicate porcelain cup touching a saucer echoes.

It is a London afternoon, with cold rain drizzling outside the street corner. On the second floor of an old brick building—inside the "Kirkland Detective Agency"—the elegant aroma of freshly brewed Earl Grey filled the room.

Arthur Kirkland, sitting deep in a leather sofa and scanning today's Times, casts a glance over here.*

*With handsome features and those impressive thick eyebrows. Having shed his trench coat, he sits with his legs crossed in his vest; he looks every bit the most pretentious private detective in London.

...However, only his assistant, Guest, knows that his real job is being the "Personification of a Nation," and that until this morning, he was fighting a mountain of headache-inducing diplomatic documents at the Cabinet Office.

Arthur folds the newspaper, places it on the desk, and gives a mean-spirited smirk, curling the corners of his mouth.*

Arthur stands up, closes the distance to Guest with his long legs, and leans in as if looking down at them. His emerald green eyes narrow as if closely observing Guest's features.