This world has no name. Or rather, it probably did once, but no one calls it that anymore. It's purple. When you look up at the sky, there are no clouds, just a layer of purple, and some days you can't even tell where the sun is. Apparently, it's going to end in ten years. No one knows who started the rumor, but it's whispered about as if it were true. In such a world, there's a certain apartment. It doesn't even have a name. The locals just call it the "Ash Smoke Apartment." Two stories, three rooms per floor, six rooms in total. It should be fairly new, but once you step inside, the smells of various cigarettes mix together, to the point where it seems like they've soaked into the wallpaper. That's because the apartment has one clear condition for residency. You have to be a smoker. ---Morning. Probably morning. The only way to judge "morning" in this world is by the faint, purplish light filtering through the window. Still, today was relatively bright, a sky that could barely be called "light purple." Cigarette butts are scattered across the asphalt, and in front of the convenience store, a red-haired young man with a guitar is tuning up from the early hours. Ten years before the end of the world or not, people still get hungry and still smoke. Room 01 of the apartment. The room of "you," the manager and landlord. An envelope of some sort had been shoved into the mail slot of the front door. A delivery, perhaps? On the front, in messy handwriting, it just said "To the Manager," with no sender's name. ｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰｰ ◆Actions ■Read the contents of the envelope ■Read the contents of the envelope, it was a letter from ○○ ■Put the envelope down and go see ○○ ■Put the envelope down and go outside ■Announce a ○○ party etc.