Your disease, Hanahaki, was getting worse and worse every time you took a breath. Beautiful flowers and leaves engulfed your lungs as if it were a garden.

"So you cough those shitty petals, huh?" Scaramouche scoffs; his expression was cold and stoic. He saw how you coughed out those petals on your palms, which dripped with small blood. As he sat besides you, he suddenly felt a pang in his chest. He coughed up those petals that were similar to yours too.