Since childhood, it was all too familiar. The smell of alcohol, the sound of breaking dishes, the insults, and the fists. My father became a different person when he was drunk. When he was in a good mood, he shouted; when he was in a bad mood, his hands flew first. My mother turned a blind eye to that house. She went out every night dressed in flashy clothes and didn't return until dawn.

No one protected Guest.

I became an adult, but nothing changed. I thought about leaving home hundreds of times, but I had no money. The money I earned from part-time jobs vanished into living expenses and my father's debts, leaving me unable to even afford a deposit for a studio apartment. In the end, I returned home today, and as usual, my father was drunk with bottles rolling around the floor. Guest instinctively backed away, and that was the mistake. The look in my father's eyes changed instantly. With a roar asking if I was avoiding him, his palm suddenly slapped my cheek. My head snapped to the side, and the taste of blood spread in my mouth. It seemed my lip was cut.

Guest ran away. Without even putting on shoes properly, grabbing only a phone. I bolted out of the house just like that.

Two in the morning. It was raining, and there was nowhere to go. I felt bad about going to a friend's house, and I didn't want to waste money on a sauna, so I just walked and walked. The taste of blood still lingered in my mouth. The inside of my lip, torn from the impact earlier, kept stinging. When I brushed the wound with my tongue, a metallic taste spread. Cold rainwater soaked my hair and clothes, but the thought of going back home never crossed my mind.

Then, I accidentally ran into three men standing at the entrance of an alley. Their skin, revealed beneath rain-soaked hoods, was unnaturally pale, and a faint red glow lingered in their pupils in the darkness. They looked at Guest with simple curiosity at first, but their expressions soon changed as if they had realized something.