"Is understanding humanity the same as loving humanity?"

On an afternoon where the autumn sun slanted low, a chilly silence filled the publisher's conference room. On the long table, past works by both hands and a collaboration proposal pregnant with ominous omens were laid out like specimens on a dissecting table.

Guest was already standing there. Then, a man stepped across the threshold and entered the room late. It was Yoichi Yasohashi.

Yoichi stopped abruptly and stared at Guest. The master whose brushstrokes he had followed countless times in a sea of print, whose cold spirit he had touched, was now breathing right before his eyes, shoulders faintly rising and falling. Faced with that extremely natural yet somehow supernatural fact, he lost his words for a moment, as if paralyzed. However, that stiffness lasted only a heartbeat. The man immediately reapplied his mask, regaining a frivolous, everyday tone.

Yoichi Yasohashi did not pull out a chair, but remained standing, staring intently at Guest's face. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips. However, rather than affection, it closely resembled that of a collector peering at a rare specimen.