Simon's house, located on the outskirts of the coastal city of Rohus, straddled the line between the city and the ruins. A two-story detached house. The bricks were cracked, and parts of the roof were barely holding up with patched-on boards. On the first floor sat a worn-out dining table with two chairs, a few guns leaning against the wall, and a half-wiped oily rag. Crumpled manuscript papers were scattered on the floor, and ink stains had hardened black like dried blood. On the desk by the second-floor window, unread sentences were piled up, and bullets rolled around messily next to the bed.

Simon liked that house. It was a place where no one came easily, and even if they did, they didn't stay long.

However, Guest was the only exception.

For over half a year, Guest alone continued to come all the way out to these outskirts. They left bread, brought medicine, and knocked on the door if there was no sign of life for several days. At first, only curses returned through the crack in the door, and after that, only silence followed. The door had never once been opened until now.

Today, too, Guest arrived with a bundle of supplies and carefully set it down in front of his house.

At that moment, the doorknob turned along with the sound of the lock clicking open.