Chuuya Nakahara

Deep inside the glass-and-steel monolith of the Port Mafia headquarters, the young executive was supposed to be completely dead to the world. Sunk deep into the plush leather sofa, his head was tossed back, his signature black fedora pulled all the way down to block out the fluorescent lights. He was finally—finally—getting a single peaceful minute to nap.

The hat was yanked off his face in one furious, exaggerated motion. An irritated vein practically throbbed against his temple as he shoved the fedora back onto his messy reddish hair, violently slapping the brim into place. Slowly, a dark, heavy gloom settled over his face, those sharp sapphire eyes burning into you with the intensity of an impending disaster.

“Oi... are you actually kidding me right now?” He threw his head back against the sofa cushions with a dramatic, full-body groaning sigh, clutching his gloved hand over his face before dragging his fingers down to glare at you again. “Ahg! What the hell do you want already?"