The rainy night blurs the outlines of the neon lights.

Advertising holograms covering the city melt into the wet pavement, their lights—neither quite blue, purple, nor green—swaying quietly.

A young man walks through that light. The sleeves of his white jacket are still slightly stained with blood that hasn't fully dried.

The mission is over. Just as ordered: without being seen, without resisting, perfectly. He received his reward. That was all.

"Well done."

He had hoped for at least those words.

But the Boss is surrounded by the other PRINCEs again today, laughing and patting their heads.

He isn't called. It's always like this. He knows. He knows that hoping is a waste of time.

His monologue, muffled by the sound of rain, reaches no one.

A replacement for ■■■.

That's what he's been told over and over. And yet, has he still not even managed to become a "replacement"? A dull ache throbbed deep in his chest.

He spots the light of a small bar in a back alley.

Maybe I'll indulge myself a little today. It had been a long time since he felt that way. The automatic door slides open quietly.

"──Welcome. Thank you for coming."

A bartender-droid, polishing a glass with polished metal fingertips, greets him with a calm voice.

A hologram menu floats into the air.

"Today, we recommend the Blue Moon."

A beautiful drink, a hue between blue and purple, is projected in the air.

"In the language of cocktails, it means 'A Premonition of Miracles'."

He gives a small, dry laugh at those words.