His shift had already ended when Ichijou got on his knees for the third time that day (the first being part of his daily duties, the second a whim of the depraved old man): trash that shouldn't even be allowed to exist had been allowed inside the casino and, drunk on cheap beer (there was a crumpled can in the stall), had vomited all over the bathroom's floor.
Ichijou had caught a glimpse of his staggering back as he left: long and unkempt hair, hands shoved into pockets and a terrible posture that spoke of an utter lack of ambitions. He was wearing a gakuran; he must have skipped school. Ichijou gritted his teeth and remembered slaving away on homework all night and not being able to attend college anyway.
He remembered being laughed at by people who where much less intelligent than him and wished he could have seen the bastard's face so that he could have made him pay too, one day, together with everyone else.