"Aiwass, someone is coming."
Suddenly, Vinesse, perched on Aiwass's shoulder, spoke up to alert him, "No malice."
Her voice was soft like a whisper during a bedtime story. The crow gently pecked at a lock of hair by Aiwass's temple, causing him to raise a hand to soothe the itchy sensation.
"Are they looking for me?"
Aiwass casually confirmed.
He posed the question, but he had already trusted Vinesse's warning.
Therefore, Aiwass tightened his collar, shifted his scarf to one side, and wore his coat more snugly to slightly cover the fresh bloodstain at his neck.
The scent of blood in the air was probably impossible to clear away. But maintaining cleanliness was also a form of courtesy when receiving guests.
As for who would come looking for him—those who knew Aiwass was at Lohar Society at this time, had the guts to approach him, had no malice, and also knew he was on the seventeenth floor treating his wounds were already few.
