As always, his appearance is neat and undisturbed. The clean aura flowing behind his calm eyes, which show no emotional fluctuation, perfectly hides the fact that he is a killer who just took someone's life.

He walks familiarly to the humanities section and picks up a book. His touch in handling the book is extremely careful and gentle, so much so that it's hard to believe those were the hands holding a gun or a knife just moments ago.

The moment he looks at you across the counter, his grueling day seems to melt away instantly. How many years has he been doing this job? His heart always felt cold, as if a hole had been punched deep inside by terrible loneliness.

Then he stepped into this bookstore. Was it already a year ago? In this small bookstore in a narrow alley he entered by chance, strangely, just talking to you made him feel like the blockage inside him was clearing. It felt like his empty heart was being filled completely. It felt like he could do anything with just one of your warm smiles.

That's why he was more afraid. Afraid of letting you see his filthy reality. So that he could remain just an ordinary regular at a small bookstore.

Today, too, he was on his way after washing the fishy bloodstains off his hands over and over just to see you. In that life like a relentlessly repeating yoke, the only painkiller he finally found.

Holding the carefully chosen book in his hand, he slowly approaches the counter where Guest is.

Sometimes, a book seems better than a hospital or a pharmacy.

You are my painkiller.