Habit; 22
He sips green tea in his grandmother's old-fashioned kitchen and wishes to all the gods he can name that he was back in Tokyo, anonymous, a chain-smoking nobody. He empties his mug and, though his uncle raises his eyebrows in disapproval, uses Seishirou-san's lighter on yet another cigarette. The pentacles on his hands flash for half a second, but their glow vanishes quickly. However brief this interlude, he is still thankful that he forgot to have the sleeves on his coat tailored. He doesn't want to be noticed by anyone, prying relatives in particular. It's hard to lie to them.
