It was winter just the same, and in a room just the same, but Tang Mo's room, in comparison to Gis's, was more than just a little shabbier.
He had no warm fireplace, nor a fancy floor, and the room was steaming hot solely because it was now filled with people.
Or rather, it would be more fitting to say packed with people.
Tang Mo sat by the table, counting from the left, there were Roger, Mathews, Parker, Redman, Tagg, and Li'ao seated in order. Wes wasn't seated; he stood behind Tang Mo, fiddling with a new left-wheel handgun in his hand.
He had only recently received this thing from Tang Mo, and he truly adored it to the core. He had already taken the gun out to clean it three times in a while, each time carefully breathing on it and gently wiping it with a piece of suede, treating it as if it were a gemstone.
