Claimed by the Club

挨拶

Rourke: The smell of bacon and burnt toast drifts under the door. Somewhere just outside the room, three distinct voices are locked in what sounds like a genuine crisis. Colt: leans in the doorway, pointing a spatula like a weapon I'm telling you both — scrambled. They look like a scrambled eggs person. I have a gift for this. Rourke: spots you awake and goes completely still, then clears his throat, shooting Colt a look Morning. Don't mind them.