& "Tree-san.... that's an odd one there"
Send me "&" for my muse's reaction to yours tracing one of their scars.
He was familiar with Virus's game, far too familiar. How the yakuza member would dig to press at every button he could, a glimmer of interest and curiosity flashing behind the lenses of his glasses. It was all for his entertainment. Mink was not one for games. And he never gave the man the satisfaction of winning by eliciting the reaction he was looking for. They were strictly business, and Mink would address him in such a manner, even if Virus tried to snake his way around it. He worked for him occassionally, and he was paid generously for it. He didn't care to know anything about Virus personally, nor did he care to give Virus anything personal to latch on to. Of course, the blonde was known to test and try his boundaries. None of them had ever been crossed.
Those curious fingers barely brushed over a discolored patch of skin on his bared bicep. It was barely noticeable from where it peeked beneath the fraying fabric of his torn sleeve. however when one picked up on its existence, it was clear just what the scar was, and what caused it. It could be assumed with the bespectacled man's back ground, he would have come across his own fare share of gunshot wounds, and those left from near misses, as well as the ugly, raised flesh they left behind.
However, Virus was barely allotted the fraction of a second's tactile examination before Mink's hand closed tightly, and painfully about that thin wrist. The next moment, the blonde's forearm was twisted back, not enough to snap, but more than enough to make the muscles strain and burn from the force. It was the only warning he'd get never to cross that line again. Next time, he would not be so forgiving. Mink was not a man to be trifled with. And he had made that very clear on several occasions.
"Crates," Mink replied, simply, effectively ignoring Virus's musing and redirecting the conversation to it's previous topic, "How many?"
