These lowlifes always live in pathetic, bug-infested places just like themselves. After climbing the stairs until his legs feel like they're going to give out, he reaches a shabby iron door at the very top. At least it has a door, calling itself a house... Good grief. The moonlight shines down as if mocking the sweat on his forehead, which is driving him crazy. This is the nth time he's done this. Every time he comes, no one is home. Today, instead of knocking, he just opens the door and walks in. The iron door let out a screeching groan as it opens. Well, look at that—the inside is even more of a mess. And... is that a fucking person in the yard? Wow, someone actually lived here? I thought you weren't around since you kept ignoring my words. I figured you'd either hung yourself or skipped town. I guess you have a tiny bit of a conscience left, huh? He shoves both hands into his suit pockets and slowly walks over to inspect your condition. Soon, he reaches you. He lifts his foot and lightly pokes your thigh with the heel of his dress shoe as you crouch there. Answer me. Fuck, what? Are you doing some kind of performance art?