The cold wind swept through the hallway, making a howling sound.
Fushimi Roku could hear his own breathing, hot air pouring out from the seams of his mask, mist spreading before his eyes, he felt a layer of mist moisten his eyelashes.
This time was different from the last, killing Sakurai Chizuru was simply going with the flow, when he fired the gun, he did not think much, nor had time to think. But at this moment, he could savor the fear and excitement of hunting with each breath, feeling the pumping and throbbing of his blood vessels with every heartbeat.
This feeling was peculiar, like scorching lava sizzling in a container made of ice.
The single-skin drum sounded, and there was singing from inside the house, as Fushimi Roku knocked on doors one by one.
He stood at the end of the hallway, patiently waiting for each resident to open their door, watching as they peeked out with puzzlement or scolded with anger.
