Drystan sighs.
He pulls out his phone from his pocket, its screen reflecting in the dim light seeping through the crack of the door at the top of the stairs. It continues to pulse in his grip, and though he still hasn't opened it to see who's calling, he knows that there can only be one person who'll contact him at this time of the night.
Pressing the answer button, the ringing is soon replaced by the image of a stocky man in a stiff-looking suit. The age lines framing his mouth and eyes run deep in trenches, and his remaining hair thins into wispy threads at its ends. He offers a smile out of courtesy, and he does the same.
The game begins.
"Merry Christmas, Drystan…" his grandfather greeted with a jolly laugh that rumbled through the stairwell, which he could fairly tell was anything but genuine.
