As Damon stepped closer, the white sphere drifted ahead of him and passed through the entrance, guiding him inside, and just outside the doorway, slightly to the side, an old man sat on a wooden chair placed beneath the shade of the overhanging roof, his posture relaxed as he leaned back slightly, his gaze lifted toward the open sky as though watching something far beyond what the eyes could normally see, while a calm, almost content smile rested on his face, giving the entire space around him a quiet, settled atmosphere.
"What brought you here?"
The old man spoke without turning his head, his voice gentle yet carrying a clarity that made it evident the question was not meant for Damon.
Damon paused.
His eyes shifted toward the white sphere.
Who is this old man…?
There was no visible authority in his posture.
No imposing presence.
And yet—
He seems to know the dean..
The sphere hovered slightly forward, and the Dean's voice emerged from it, composed as always.
"I have brought a student… he will be doing voluntary service here."
For the first time, the old man's gaze shifted.
His eyes glanced toward Damon, quiet and unreadable, as if assessing him in a single, brief moment before returning to their original calm.
He said nothing.
Instead, he simply lifted his hand and gestured toward the interior.
The sphere moved.
"Let's go."
Damon lingered for just a fraction of a second longer, his eyes resting on the old man as a faint curiosity stirred within him, before he finally turned and followed the Dean inside.
The moment he stepped in, the atmosphere changed.
Not drastically.
But enough to be felt.
The space inside was open and warm, sunlight filtering through the tall windows and settling softly across the wooden floors, while the air carried a quiet liveliness, not loud or chaotic, but filled with small, scattered moments of life.
To one side, two old men sat across from each other at a table, cards spread between them as they played what seemed to be a simple game, though the expressions on their faces suggested anything but simplicity.
"You old fox, don't think I didn't see that!" one of them barked, slamming a card down with exaggerated frustration.
"Oh, shut it, you blind crow," the other snapped back immediately, his eyes narrowing as he rearranged his cards, "if you spent less time whining and more time thinking, you might actually win for once!"
"Hah! Win? Against you? I'd rather lose than stoop that low!"
"You've been losing your whole life, what's one more time?"
Their argument continued without pause, sharp words flying back and forth.
Not far from them, an old man stood before a polished mirror, carefully running a blade along his cheek as he shaved, his movements slow but deliberate, pausing every few seconds to tilt his head and inspect his reflection before calling out to a nearby old woman seated at a table.
"How do I look?"
The woman glanced up briefly from what she was doing, her eyes scanning him with a practiced indifference before she replied without hesitation.
"Like someone who thinks he still has hair worth fixing."
The old man scoffed.
"Hmph… jealous, are you?"
"Of what? That patch you call a beard?"
He grumbled under his breath but continued shaving anyway.
A little further inside, another old woman sat near the window, her hands moving steadily as she wove threads together into something intricate, her fingers working with quiet precision while a soft tune escaped her lips, a gentle hum that blended into the atmosphere, giving the entire space a comforting rhythm.
Damon's gaze moved across all of it.
Damon's gaze shifted instinctively toward the white sphere that had been guiding him, only to find that it had vanished without a trace, leaving him standing alone amidst the unfamiliar yet strangely warm atmosphere, and for a brief moment, his brows furrowed slightly as a thought crossed his mind.
Where did she go…?
And… what exactly am I supposed to do now…?
Before he could dwell on it any further—
"Hey… young man!"
The sudden loud shout cut through the space, drawing attention from several directions at once, and Damon turned his head toward the source, only to find one of the two old men from earlier now staring directly at him, his voice carrying enough authority to make even the ongoing chatter pause for a moment.
"Come here!"
The second old man added immediately, gesturing impatiently as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Damon stood still for a second, clearly not expecting to be singled out like that, before he finally moved, his steps slow but steady as he approached their table, his expression neutral yet observant.
"Sit."
One of them pulled out a chair without waiting for a response, sliding it toward Damon with a firm push.
"Play a few games with us," the other added, already shuffling the cards with practiced ease, "and then you can decide which one of us is better."
Damon's eyes moved between the two of them, his thoughts briefly sharpening.
Just like that…?
They don't even ask who I am…?
What if I were a thief… or worse…?
The thought barely settled before—
Cards were already placed in front of him.
"What are you waiting for?" one of them snapped. "Play!"
Damon exhaled quietly and sat down, picking up the cards without much enthusiasm as the game began almost immediately, the two old men falling back into their rhythm as if his presence had always been part of it.
"Oi! Don't look at my cards, you rotten crow!"
"Your cards? With that face, even your luck ran away years ago!"
"Say that again and I'll knock your teeth out!"
"You've been saying that for twenty years and I still have all of them!"
Their voices rose and fell continuously, curses and insults flying back and forth without pause, yet neither of them seemed remotely bothered by it, their focus shifting between the game and each other in equal measure.
Damon, meanwhile, sat there with a faintly irritated expression, throwing down cards without much thought, his movements lacking any real engagement as his mind drifted elsewhere.
Just what am I doing…?
If they want to prove who's better… why don't they just fight it out…
Another card hit the table.
Another round of bickering followed.
And then—
Both of them turned toward him at the exact same time.
"WHO DO YOU THINK IS BETTER?"
Damon blinked.
Once.
Caught completely off guard by the sudden demand.
Before he could even process a response—
"You two old bastards!"
A sharp voice cut in from the side.
"Annoying this young man like that… if you have so much energy, just grab each other's throats and get it over with!"
Damon turned his head toward the source of the interruption, where an old woman stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the two men with clear annoyance before her gaze shifted toward him, softening slightly.
"Young man, come here," she said, waving him over dismissively, "leave those two to die arguing on their own."
Damon did not hesitate for even a moment, seizing the opportunity the instant it presented itself as he pushed his chair back and stood up, leaving the two arguing old men behind without so much as a backward glance, his steps carrying him toward the old woman who had just intervened, his expression returning to its usual calm as he approached her.
It was only when he came closer that he noticed her more clearly.
She was the same old woman who had been bickering with the man shaving earlier, her posture relaxed yet lively, and now that he stood near her, a faint scar could be seen running along the side of her neck, subtle but unmistakable, as if it carried a story of its own that she no longer bothered to hide.
She looked at him, and her face immediately broke into a wide, familiar kind of smile.
"Well now, what's your name, young man? And how old are you?" she asked, her tone light and curious, her eyes already scanning him from head to toe with an almost intrusive interest.
Damon blinked once before answering simply.
"Damon… eighteen."
The moment he said it, her expression brightened even more, her eyes lighting up as if she had just found something unexpectedly delightful.
"Ohh? Eighteen, is it? Such a fine age," she said with a soft laugh that carried an unmistakable warmth, leaning slightly closer as if already invested in the conversation, "and what do you do, young man?"
Damon's eyes narrowed just slightly at the direction this was heading, but he still answered.
"I'm a student… at Arcadia Academy."
Her reaction was immediate.
Her smile widened so much that it seemed like every single tooth was on display as she let out a delighted laugh.
"Hahaha! A student at the academy, and so handsome too," she said, her tone turning playful in a way that made Damon instinctively wary, "you must have someone you like already, hmm? Or perhaps someone likes you?"
Damon's face remained completely still.
But internally—
Fuck…
Escaped a shark just to fall into the hands of a bear…
The woman leaned in slightly, clearly not done.
"If not, then my granddaughter would be just about—"
"No."
Damon cut her off cleanly, his voice firm and leaving no room for continuation.
"I don't… nor am I looking for one."
The words landed bluntly, effectively halting her mid-sentence as he turned away without waiting for her response, already moving off before she could regain momentum.
As he walked, his attention was drawn unconsciously toward a soft, steady humming that drifted through the room, gentle and rhythmic, carrying a faint sense of nostalgia within it, and without realizing it, he found himself moving toward the source of that sound until he stopped a short distance away.
An old woman sat near the window.
Her hands moved slowly as she wove something with practiced care, her fingers steady despite her age, the soft tune continuing to escape her lips as she worked.
Damon stood there quietly, listening.
For a brief moment, nothing else intruded.
Then—
She noticed him.
Her humming stopped abruptly.
Her hands froze.
And in a quick, almost defensive motion, she pulled the half-finished muffler closer to herself, trying to shield it from his view as she looked at him with wary, almost fearful eyes.
"I-it's for my son…" she said, her voice trembling slightly, clutching the fabric tighter, "g-go away… I-I won't give it to you…"
Damon frowned faintly, his tone neutral as he replied.
"I don't—"
But before he could finish, she drew it even closer, her body curling around it protectively as if he might snatch it away at any moment.
Suddenly—
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Pulling him back.
Damon turned slightly as the old man from earlier—still with patches of shaving foam clinging to his face—leaned in closer, lowering his voice into a quiet whisper.
"Shh… don't say anything…"
He glanced toward the old woman before continuing softly.
"That one's gone senile… her son left her here for a long time now… but she still keeps weaving that muffler… waiting for him."