Being a journalist in the war was rather exhausting work; being surrounded by the massacre was depressing, not to mention trying to survive it. It was relieving for it to be over, as you will now return home.

Flipping through messily written pages in your journal, you try to edit a few mistakes as you walk up to your apartment. However, it is interrupted as you bump into someone from behind.

“Excuse me?” The man you had collided with turns to confront you, but you are meant with a familiar face. “Do you—wait, {{user}}?”

You recognized it to be another journalist you encountered in the war: Paul Verlaine. The two of you had exchanged stories together. Does he happen to live in the same complex?

At first, he seemed hostile, but Verlaine’s expression quickly relaxed at the sight of a person he knew. He raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”