"You don't," Mr. Stitched counters with a smirk, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it in one swift motion. "You won't mind wasting a few hours, will you? You'll get there soon enough."
The room they step into resembles a modern hospital—a sterile white space filled with mismatched chairs and scattered vials. Some of the chemicals in the vials look like combinations that shouldn't even exist together, the kind that could easily cause trouble in the wrong hands.
Mr. Stitched drops into a chair by a desk piled high with disorganized papers, giving the impression of a dean's cluttered workspace. He leans back and exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs heavily in the air.
"Do they all forget they have work?" Ryuji wonders, coughing slightly at the acrid smell. His irritation leaks through as he mutters, "You're a teacher, and you're smoking?"
