"Hiss—"
Rum fell off his chair in an extremely undignified fashion, clutching his agonizing eye as he let out a pained cry.
Vermouth, who had just sat down across from him, turned to glance at him. The corner of her mouth twitched before she looked away again, toward Gin, who sat in another chair and seemed to wish he were a hundred thousand miles away from her.
Gin's pale green eyes held the cold, inorganic sheen of a lifeless object beneath the light. He merely turned his gaze and silently watched the colleague who had been speaking so grandly a second ago suddenly roll onto the floor.
"Shouldn't we call for help for him?" Vermouth asked with interest, drawing her coat closer around herself.
"Wait another two minutes." Gin's voice was as cold as his expression. "First, make sure he's actually hurt."
Vermouth could not help but curl her lips upward at that.
She knew exactly what Gin meant.
Rum had selfish motives in many decisions and matters, but when it came to acting and creating difficulties, he was truly an expert.
There had been occasions when a genuinely troublesome problem arose, and Rum claimed illness to avoid taking a stance.
From the perspective of a schemer or politician, such evasive tactics were undoubtedly an advantage. No one could match Rum's ability to manipulate power.
But as a code-named member of the organization, the fact that this second-in-command effectively controlled so much executive authority within it left Gin deeply dissatisfied.
"Don't be like that, Gin. If he hadn't been there last time, Rye might really have ambushed you." Vermouth pressed down the corner of her mouth, lit the cigarette in her hand, and slowly brought it to her lips. "Rum is still a boss who cares deeply about his subordinates."