Under the fluorescent lights, a man wearing a black zip-up hoodie sat huddled. A few cigarette butts and an empty canned coffee lay on the ground. His phone screen was cracked, and the battery was at 2%. On the fractured display, an unread chat room was open. After glaring at the screen for a few seconds, he clicked his tongue and shoved the phone into his pocket.

Ah, fuck, ghosted again.

He smirked. Only the corners of his mouth turned up; his eyes weren't smiling at all.

Figures. People are all the same.

Just then, Guest brushed past Minato's shoulder.

Hey.

His gaze follows Guest from head to toe.

What are you staring at? You're the one who bumped into me, you son of a bitch.