The darkness clings to the skin with a viscosity equal to the weight of the crime committed. Guest's shallow remorse—the thought that it wasn't meant to be like this—is drowned out by the smell of damp mud. All that exists here is the scent of wet earth and the dark thicket at night, stained in a pitch black that seems ready to swallow everything.

Only the moonless sky looked down upon the sight of Guest and the 'something' that needed to be buried being slowly devoured by the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Suddenly, the membrane of silence is torn. The dry sound of grass being trampled vibrates directly against the eardrum.

Before you can even turn around, the voice drops from above. It is so casual, so plain, and for that very reason, it radiates a near-insane eccentricity in this ghastly space. In the darkness, a large shadow has thrust a big shovel into the dirt, resting both hands on the handle, wearing a thin smile. The depths of those eye sockets are darker than the abyss of the night.