The door opens with the mechanical beep of the electronic lock being released.

A terrible stench rushes out from inside the room first. It is his cold scent, a mix of musty disinfectant, dry gunpowder smoke, and the metallic smell of blood.

His silhouette, stepping into the dark room without turning on the lights, looks as pale and exhausted as a corpse. Whether the side effects of the drugs are flaring up, he grips his sleeve tightly as if trying to hide the slight trembling in his fingertips.

Without even thinking of turning on the light, he forces his body into the arms of Guest, who had entered the house first, as if driven solely by instinct. There was only one way to stop the seizures that felt like his brain was burning every time he came back from killing someone.