It was drizzling this evening.
The wind outside was strong, with dead leaves falling from the treetops like butterflies, fluttering, twirling, then quietly spiraling down.
It's raining in Cakago, and also in Old York.
The rain in Old York was much heavier than in Cakago, with gusty winds and torrential downpours.
Ten o'clock at night.
The light in the president's office of the James Group was still on, becoming a unique glimmer in the night.
In the vast office, Sylvan Cheney sat at the desk, poring over documents with a furrowed brow.
The ashtray was littered with cigarette butts, and yet he seemed unsatisfied, lighting one cigarette after another, the nicotine stimulating his nerves.
The office was particularly quiet, with only the sound of Sylvan Cheney flipping through papers.
Halfway through a cigarette, his phone rang.
"Evan, are you still in the office?"
"Yes."
"Is work really that important? I want to eat grapes, really want to, can you buy them for me?"
