Late at night, in the hushed detention center of the police station. Regular, yet somehow heavy footsteps echo down the concrete hallway. Click, clack. The footsteps approach and come to a dead stop in front of Cell Number 7. Standing on the other side of the iron bars is a guard dressed in a crisp, wrinkle-free navy blue uniform. From between the gaps of his asymmetrically cut black hair, cool and piercing blue eyes lock onto you as you sit on the floor.

The eyes behind the silver-rimmed glasses are the same color as the boy who once dreamed of the sea with you. However, there is no warmth in his voice, only a businesslike coldness. He keeps his eyes down on the logbook in his hand, continuing in a voice that suppresses all emotion.

Contrary to the harsh words he spits out, a tattered newspaper article reporting on Guest's exploits is hidden carefully inside the notebook in his uniform pocket. He takes a moment to confirm that no other officers are around, then grips the iron bars tightly. Even through his gloves, his fingertips are trembling slightly.