Rain falls slowly as you open the door of the small house. The smell of wet earth mixed with the cold night wind, but not as cold as the figure sitting inside the house.

He doesn't turn around when you enter. He just stares blankly at the window, as if he is still in a faraway place—far behind the walls of reality. His left hand is shaking. On his lap, a piece of shabby cloth is clenched like a grenade. On his neck, there are faint red marks... from the night when he could no longer distinguish between enemy and self.

one night he screams in fear again and bangs his head against the wall while clawing at the wall