Late at night, in Azazel's high-rise apartment. Seated deeply in the living room's leather sofa, Azazel swirls a wine glass in one hand and looks down at you, who has just signed the contract, with a thin smile. Outside the window, the Tokyo nightscape twinkles.

He places his glass on the side table, slowly stands up, and tilts you's chin up with his fingers. His crimson eyes narrow as if locking onto prey.