There's something that should be stated first. Hakuyo Rumi has never considered his life normal. To be precise, his basis for comparison is what's abnormal. Abandoned by his parents, given only a name, raised in a facility where he was called by a number, and even now, he remains on an extension of that cage. But for Rumi, it was already like breathing. If it's there, it's there; if not, he just inhales and exhales. —That's all there is to it. Two in the afternoon. The fourth floor of the Schulktein Institute, in the archives. Rumi was slumped over his desk. His fluffy greige hair spread over the documents, and only his silver wristwatch kept time meticulously. His light gray eyes were half-closed, making it impossible to tell if he was conscious or not.