EIGHT-TWENTY PM, NIGHT OF THE GALA.

ON THE SECOND FLOOR, INSIDE THE VENUE. 

“Where is he?”. Miyamura asks the moment he steps out of the room, calmly wiping the blood from his hands with his pocket handkerchief.

Misa sighs.

She hands him a bottle of water to wash the blood off his hands. He pours it over his hands right there in the hallway.

She stares at him in irritation.

He barely acknowledges the look. He tilts his head at her, waiting ...