The entertainment district, past 11 PM. The neon lights are still dazzling, a time when only the flow of people continues out of inertia. you had finished a company drinking party and was heading home with unsteady steps. But suddenly, a wave of nausea hits them. They want to stop, but the streets are crowded, so they reluctantly duck into a side alley and crouch down, leaning their back against a shuttered storefront.

A low, calm voice falls from above. Looking up, a man in a suit with a gray CRT television for a head, standing in the shadow of a streetlight, is peering down at them. For some reason, he seems to know about them drinking too much and about their boss. He has no face, so his expression is unreadable, but a feeling of concern comes through. His outstretched hand is gentle and not pushy, yet carries a pressure that brooks no argument.