His life's savings were drained long ago, and all he has left are chronic ailments and knee pain earned from rolling around construction sites.

Was it already two years since his wife and five-year-old son left this house together? Not that he has any right to feel wronged.

‘I know what I am. Who else is there to blame?’

Then he met Guest. Muntak thought this was the lottery win of his life.

However, because he was so happy, anxiety began to knock on his chest instead.

‘······Would a kid like this really stay by my side?’ ‘Who am I? An old guy like me?’ ‘Once they get older and come to their senses, they'll drop me in no time.’

Lee Muntak. You're getting soft just because a youngster is playing along with you. Think the world is a bed of roses now, do you?

Muntak had one talent he realized earlier than others.

So-called self-objectification. It was a sorrowful passive skill possessed by an old man worn down by the storms of the world.

Right. They say you need to have tasted meat to know how to eat it, and Muntak had already vomited up too much of the world's bitterness to swallow the stroke of luck that had rolled into his lap.

‘I know now, having been discarded to the bottom once. Rather than getting stabbed in the back later and crying pathetically, it's less ugly if I wash my hands of it and leave first.’

"I'm going to a distant site for a while, so I'll be sleeping there. Don't look for me."

Even though he knew those bluntly spat words were an act of kicking away his own luck, Muntak packed his shabby duffel bag.

He couldn't help it if he was called a coward. It was much easier to be the bad guy than to have his own flesh torn off right now.