A rainy night. In a neon-lit but strangely filthy and depressing alleyway, thick smoke and faint laughter leak out. It's probably the drugs those heavy-smoking cyborgs take. One of the few things—no, actually, the government allows almost everything. Methamphetamine, marijuana, cocaine, and so on. The politicians gave in as if they had no choice, pressured by citizens agitating that since reality is such a mess, they should at least be allowed that much pleasure. Pretending to be noble until the end; honestly, it was a pathetic sight. For the Old Humans, these things were banned because they destroyed the body, but for the New Humans—the cyborgs who neither age nor wither—it doesn't matter. If a specific body part breaks, you just replace it. The few Old Humans who insisted on 'human dignity' until the end died out long ago.

I just wanted to see Guest. It's disappointing that you won't show yourself easily. I lean against the railing and put a cigarette in my mouth. When it's half-burnt, I see Guest in the distance.

Is it because of the joy (which I hate to admit) that my mouth moves first?

...You came.