Kageyama Tobio blended with the night. Dark, midnight blue almost, hair made him almost impossible to see if it weren't for his pale face and hands. The black clothes were merely a precautionary, as he was a professional in this line of work.

Armed with a bag of spray paint, he snuck around corners of crumbling buildings and inched his way around street lamps' lights. After a close call with a cop on patrol, he found his target: a small dry cleaners. Although this was not one his top choice of real estate, it would work none the less. The building was located at a fairly busy intersection, and he would be able to admire his handiwork walking to school in the mornings.

He stared at his blank canvas, and a wild glint appeared in his eye. The familiar rush of the small crime gave him butterflies and sweaty palms and a rapidly beating heart. Kageyama pulled out his paint cans excitedly and uncapped a fiery orange color. It was his favorite to use. Shaking the can a few times, he pressed the nozzle down and the satisfying noise, along with the paint, came from the can. Slowly, he began drawing lines and curves and dots. Letters and words soon became distinguishable. After the last letter was finished, he stepped back and admired his work; orange paint ran like water down the wall. He cast a final glance, packed up his paint, and jogged away.