Mr. Mischael sat up from the hospital bed—it was now fifty-five minutes past four in the afternoon. The hospital, founded by the Goddess of Mercy, was currently going through a shift change, and the nurses would not come to the private rooms at this time.
He donned his coat, moving as if devoid of any wounds. He opened the door and walked out into the empty corridor. Across from his room, the door was wide open, with an old man on the bed laughing at a newspaper every now and again.
He seemed like a senile old man, sent here by his children who had confirmed he was insane, saying they would transfer him to a suburban rehabilitation hospital tomorrow.
To put it bluntly, it was merely finding a quiet place for the old man to await death.
But at least the children had paid money, which made them countless times better than those who were even stingy with that.
