"Waaaaaah!!"
Cheers erupted throughout the back alley warehouse as mugs were slammed together and laughter filled the air.
After forcibly uniting all the criminal organizations that lurked in the slums, we ended up throwing what could only be called a grand party—at least by their standards.
The alcohol was cheap, burning my throat on the way down, and the snacks were barely passable. Stale bread. Greasy meat of questionable origin.
Still, the gang members seemed to be having the time of their lives.
They drank, shouted, sang off-key songs, and boasted about how today marked the beginning of a new era for the underworld.
I, on the other hand, simply ate to keep my stomach from growling, my expression completely flat.
For them, this was a feast.
For me, it was barely tolerable.
Having grown used to proper meals—warm plates, seasoned meat, freshly baked bread—this whole spread felt painfully lacking.
…Ah, I want a steak.
A thick one. Medium rare. With sauce.
