"Ahh… before we dive into hell," Ren murmured, leaning back on the rickety wooden chair, "I've gotta ask—what first drew you into this mercenary world?"
Fujisawa—busy pouring water into two tin mugs at the small portable stove—paused. Thin smoke curled from the pot's spout, mingling with the dust and old-metal scent. Ren's question hung in the air, calm yet profound enough to stir up something buried deep inside.
After a moment, Fujisawa spoke.
"For money," he answered simply, his face unreadable.
Ren turned, surprised by the blunt honesty. "Money...? Sorry, man, I feel like I just hit a sore spot..."
Fujisawa offered a faint smile as he handed a mug of tea to Ren and took a sip of his coffee—despite the steaming vapor still rising sharply.
"Whoa…it's still boiling!" Ren exclaimed.
