Behind the newspaper, only the man's eyes were moving.

Afternoon in the Imperial Capital. Streetcars creak, and the sounds of footsteps and street vendors fill the thoroughfare. The man sat at a table in a cafe facing the street, his long legs crossed, spreading out the morning paper. In the ashtray beside him, a thin trail of smoke wavered from his pipe.

To an onlooker, he appeared to be nothing more than a gentleman engrossed in the news. However, not a single page had been turned for some time.

The man in white who crossed the storefront was carrying a tray, yet his fingertips were clean. His shoes were stained with dry red clay, and only his left inner pocket bulged unnaturally.