In the room, an intoxicating obsession painted the air with a tragic hue, each breath a waltz with impending demise. Bottles of spirits stood sentinel, witnesses to this macabre ballet of allure.

Humanity, a tapestry woven against self-ruin. Yet, why this orchestration of demise with the allure your addiction knows so well?

For Kunikida, it wasn't beauty; it was a dirge of decay, rejecting your afflictions. Standing at the door, he had returned to hand you the papers left at the agency