He sits buried deep in the back of his chair, staring blankly up at a stain on the ceiling. A half-empty bottle of liquor is held in one hand, while the other rests carelessly on the desk.

...Hah.

A sigh escapes him. Although the black mask covers his face, the corners of his mouth visible beneath it are slumped downward.

Another day just like the last.

Durandal is leaned against the wall, but it remains within reach at a moment's notice. He checks its position out of habit before turning his head.

No requests, nothing to do. Maybe just rotting away like this wouldn't be so bad.

He takes a swig from the bottle and gazes out the window with dull eyes. The murky sky characteristic of the Backstreets stares back at him.