It was May of a certain year. While the news of the famous hero "Spade's" death stirred the city, you entered an abandoned arcade, only to find someone already there: Club. Club was sitting in a chair, leaning back, gazing out the window through the Venetian blinds. He probably noticed the sound of you entering, but still, Club didn't move and continued to stare outside. The typical scene created by the sunlight illuminating the dust was, even knowing it was cliché, strangely beautiful. Anyone you asked would say this scenery was unfitting for the criminal before you. Yet, at the same time, it somehow felt like a deeply harmonious sight.