"My dear friend, you do not know how much I miss you. Although the burning red clouds engulfed your body, your voice and smile still linger in my mind..."
Survivor's Daily newsroom.
Hal, sitting on a small stool by the window, held a half-empty bottle of liquor and burped while composing poems with twisted syntax.
Usually, no one bothered with him.
In the eyes of most employees in the newsroom, this guy just wanted an excuse to drink during the day. Sucking up to him brought no benefits and would only result in being dragged into endless conversations all day, hindering the completion of that day's tasks.
"Did your lover die?"
"Lover? *hic* Superficial! It is written for my best friend..." Hal burped midway through his speech and suddenly froze.
Someone was standing at the entrance of the newsroom.
A backpack was strapped to his back along with an assault rifle hanging beside it, looking exactly like it had when he left from here a week ago, without a single trace of injury.
