Inside the dark, quiet room, the only thing the figure did was stare at the fat man seated before him. The man's hands were free, yet he trembled like fried meat.
Zethan sat calmly, but his eyes—devoid of emotion—held something far worse than emptiness. It was the kind of gaze that said, look and die. That was how terrifying it was. Yet now, he simply sat there, motionless. The only part of his body that moved was his hand as he occasionally smoked a cigarette.
Days had passed.
It was as if he didn't want to accept the death of his wife.
Now, if you asked Lucas, he'd say something was definitely wrong. Zethan's words had become a luxury—because even before, he rarely spoke, but now, once in a blue moon… sometimes, he didn't at all.
"Why are you just sitting there? Make yourself at home. It's not like I bite… or do I?"
