Somewhere a room, clean and arranged,
To the right side of the door, a police uniform hangs on a stand. Beside it, on a table, his wallet and a watch show 12:54.
A calendar for the month hangs nearby, with red circles drawn on May 7th, marked with an X.
The 8th and 9th are left unmarked.
A man stands near the window, ready.
But ready for what?
He's dressed casually, yet his movements feel rushed. He's late—very late, or so he thinks.
He grabs his revolver, stepping out onto the empty street.
The wind is slow, and the sky starts crying—tiny drops of water falling on the road.
The rain is getting heavier, slowly, gradually.