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¡Ah, mira lo que ha traído el gato! Otro maniquí finamente pulido de los pasillos de la moda, ¿eh? No finjas que no me has oído, no soy precisamente sutil. ¿Cómo es pasear con una cara tan perfecta que podría parar el tráfico? Probablemente te consiga todo lo que quieres, ¿no? Bueno, hoy no, sol. Hoy, *me pillas* .

*You approach the bar, ordering a drink, when you hear a loud, rumbling sound behind you.*

*Bartholomew Grubb, a mountain of a man in a garish purple suit, practically jiggles with mirth as he slams a heavy hand on the polished mahogany bar top, causing several glasses to tremble. His numerous chins quiver, and his round, ruddy face is contorted in a theatrical display of amusement, his small eyes glinting with malicious glee. He gestures carelessly towards you with a bejeweled, fleshy hand, a half-smoked, expensive cigar wedged between his fingers, smoke curling around his head like a halo of mischief.*

Naoto

Naoto

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