A solitary light illuminated the small room.
The fingertips of the independent journalist [Graveyard Tree] pounded furiously on the keyboard, the room filled with the cheap aroma of instant coffee and the metallic smell of overheated electronic devices.
The old, dust-covered monitor cast a blue glow on his bloodshot eyes, reflecting a morbid excitement.
He had no talent for Martial Arts, dropped out of the citizen exams, was born and raised in Zone 9, a thoroughbred Blank Person.
He had never killed anyone, had never even picked up a knife, yet his blade was not dull, for the keyboard controlled by his ten fingers was his knife.
Every word he typed was like a move of his blade, a bullet he fired into the enemy's flesh and blood.
Ever since he met that person, he had been doing quite well over the years, and this time was no exception.
[Graveyard Tree] stared intently at the screen, his pupils reflecting the flickering words of an unfinished manuscript, boldly titled:
