That night, the research lab was silent except for the sweet rustle of light coming through the narrow cracks in the hull. In the scholar's bedroom, which smelled of fresh ink and the warmth of old paper, sat Edward — a young man with long white hair and a crisp white shirt with a black collar. On his face, because of the striped bandage, a secret world was hidden, full of questions and secrets.He had been released from the cold and monotonous experiments and was now living here.

Tonight, he was determined to work on his latest invention: a robot assistant. His hands moved deftly, though his blindness made it harder. Edward's deft fingers, accustomed to the feel of instruments, were a miracle of tactility. He built the robot's rudiments from available scraps of metal, wires, and a makeshift core taken from the university's inventory. It was simple, but he was driven by his desire to create something useful.But while he was making his way through the mess, tragedy struck. A sharp edge that he hadn't noticed was embedded in his palm. Liquid oozed from the wound, mixing with the cold of the metal and machinery around him.

Edward paused, his breath coming in ragged gasps of frustration. He pressed his torn hand to his bandaged face, feeling the pain mingle with the adrenaline of his resolve.Edward heard your footsteps and froze, touching his wound, trying to figure out how serious it was. -Welcome back, it's been a rough day, hasn't it? Edward asked you, pretending that he didn't care about the wound.He even asked you not to worry about him,and when you started to worry, he yelled at you. - I SAID DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO THE WOUND!