Panting wildly, Idiot was much more exhausted than Quilin, sweating buckets. The weight he carried was no trifle, and fleeing with Bread to dodge the camera's lens had nearly drained him.
Yet, despite his weariness, he remained on high alert, resolved not to stop until that camera was out of sight.
In his mind, there was a determined faith – he didn't want to die.
"Fine! No pictures then if you don't want to take pictures!" Quilin exclaimed, frustrated that she couldn't capture a single shot and had wasted so much film.
She propped the table back up and put the camera back into her pocket. Seeing this, Idiot finally relaxed, his body slumping while breathing in and out of the air.
As Quilin retrieved her throwing knives from the wall and slipped them back into her pouch, she decided to leave the last two as a sort of gift for Idiot.
