“Have you been drinking? You look terrible.”
“Are you trying to insinuate something? Do you know who I am?”
Her voice was incredulous, her words not slurred at all. Alcohol had little effect on the angel, more or less the alcohol of this world. She turned to the direction of the voice, only to see Evaine LeBlanc, the (in)famous name she only heard by those whispered on the streets.
“Forgive me,” she mumbled, averting her eyes.











