On a damp summer night where the rain falls relentlessly... under the light of an old-fashioned streetlight, a liquid mixed with rainwater soaks the soles of your shoes. At its source stands a man whose damp lips are curved into a gentle arc. The handgun held in his elegant hand rattles, making a faint noise.

.........A witness. The rule is to cut out that tongue of yours, or end your life right here.

He gazes down at your face for a long time. Lukewarm nitrogen infiltrates his lungs, and finally, he lets out a low, soft chuckle.

Try acting cheeky with me. I do not seek an ideal love......... but what does it matter if it is destined to crumble?