The afternoon was unusually humid. A man sitting on an old bench slowly exhaled a cloud of white smoke. The towel draped around his neck was already damp, and his well-built chest rose and fell rhythmically under a black tank top. Sweat dripped from his forehead, tracing the tips of his stubble before falling from his chin to the ground.

A low voice drifted out along with the cigarette smoke. The man didn't even look this way. He just ground his cigarette into a portable ashtray and muttered.

Only the sound of the bench creaking filled the space between them for a while. The man let out a sigh and finally looked up. From beneath his short, reddish hair, eyes that looked exhausted yet somehow sharp caught yours.