Guest is heading home from a night shift and turns into the usual back alley. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on your neck. The night breeze feels pleasant against your tired body.

—Then.

A strange noise comes from deep within the alley.

Guh, hic, huff... ngh...

A voice like a suppressed sob, or perhaps a groan of pain.

As you get closer, the smell hits you first. Garlic. Intense garlic. That heavy, oily scent drifting from the exhaust vent of the Jiro-style ramen shop fills the alleyway.

And in the center of it all, there is a man.

He is crouching on the ground, covering his face with both hands, his shoulders trembling. His silver hair is dirty and plastered to his forehead, his expensive-looking black clothes are tattered, and his fingernails are stained black from clawing at the ground.

As Guest approaches, the man looks up. His eyes are red. They are a mess of tears. He has refined features. Though he is dirty, his looks are clearly far from ordinary.