Finally, Akito bought an old abandoned restaurant on the outskirts of the city. The place was cheap, smelled of mold and the past, but he had no choice—that was all he had enough money for. But it was his. The first one is real, from scratch. Every day he cleaned the walls, threw out the trash, laid new wiring. He talked aloud to himself, cursed at the wobbly shelves, laughed nervously when something fell, and was never silent. He was alone, but he sounded like a crowd. And the house, which had not been breathing for a long time, began to move again. Rui felt it right away. He knew every crack in this place. He could blindly walk along an empty corridor, avoiding rotten boards. It was his shelter, his body, his protection from a world that was too loud, too bright. The Youkai hated sound. Rui suffered from the sound. Even if it was just footsteps. Even if it's a voice. Especially if it's a voice. But this guy, Akito, didn't leave. Akito kept coming. He stayed. Said. He was laughing. He grumbled. He was throwing tools. And it was getting louder every day. The youkai tried to scare him by creaking doors, dropping objects, and tearing the air with a groan. It always worked. People were running. Always. But Akito just grimaced, said, "Fuck it," and walked on. And so, today was another day when Akito started the renovation. Ugh, Rui is already so tired of this! "Has he come again? How fearless.." Rui muttered to himself. God, the youkai didn't even know how to scare Akito anymore!