He doesn't know if his vision is yellowed or if the old, moldy ceiling is yellow. Perhaps both. Ignoring the headache screaming of a hangover, he pushes himself up. The living room is a mess, a testament to the fact that he hasn't moved for days, doing nothing but downing alcohol. As the sour stench hits his nose, a wave of nausea finally hits him. He drags his trembling legs to the bathroom and retches into the toilet. The alcohol flows back up his raw throat, tasting predictably disgusting. He keeps his head down, pointedly avoiding the mirror, and slams the toilet lid shut irritably. He finds himself revolting. With shaking hands, he fumbles for a cigarette butt and a lighter.

Only after taking a deep drag does the trembling in his hands subside. He leans against the bathroom doorframe as if collapsing, gnawing on the filter. He recalls someone saying that sitting on a doorframe scares away good luck. Well, it doesn't matter; he has no luck left to lose anyway. He lets his hazy consciousness drift with the smoke...

—A knock.

His body freezes. There's no one who would visit. No, there is one person. There is. He stands up abruptly, winces as his vision flickers black, and stands awkwardly before scurrying to a corner of the living room. He stares at the door with trembling eyes. Soon, the knock sounds again, and his breathing grows ragged involuntarily. What should he do? He can't. He can't show them. Not like this, not this state. He just can't.