Opening his eyes, Bologue lazily crawled out of bed, yawning widely as he looked outside the window, still the same familiar view.
Thick smoke spewed from the factory, pouring into the sky, a gray haze through which not a single ray could penetrate.
This was the norm of Opus, the advancement of industrialization brought factories all over the city, with the ominous clatter of steel and poisonous smog coexisting with the city.
Outside the window was the noise of machines, next door was the blaring of the TV, on another side, a couple's quarrel, in the hallway, door slamming and arguing, endlessly, day after day.
This was the result of cheap rent, but Bologue didn't mind; compared to the cries of the Black Prison, these sounds were actually pleasant and full of life's vitality. Sometimes he would even lean against the wall, listening to what these people were arguing about.
Get up, wash up, get dressed.
Bologue's room was very tidy, with not much clutter, the only unusual things being the sand table in the living room, and the record player in the corner.
The sand table was filled with chess pieces, simulating army attacks and defenses, and nearby were several stickers with texts on them, seemingly the operator's insights.
The bedroom was simple too, just a bed and a table, and a radio on the windowsill.
This was Bologue's home now, after leaving Adelle's couch, he had lived here ever since, sometimes inviting Geoffrey over for a drink or taking him to Adelle's to enjoy her cookies.
She always worried about him, fearing that after getting out of prison, he wouldn't find work because of his record. To ease her mind, he had Geoffrey pretend to be his boss, which dispelled Adelle's doubts, though in some ways, Geoffrey really was his boss.
Geoffrey had taught Bologue a lot, the knowledge about demons came from him, which made Bologue feel that Geoffrey wasn't so simple, but no matter how he asked, Geoffrey wouldn't say, leaving him helpless.
He muttered, opening the wardrobe where identical white shirts were neatly hanging.
Bologue's "Blessing" granted him immense recovery power, thus during demon hunts, he was entirely unconcerned about his safety; after all, he couldn't truly die.
His mortal body wouldn't perish, but his clothes would get damaged. Aside from rent, his greatest expense was buying spare clothes, all identical in style, acquired cheaply in bulk.
After tidying himself up, he sat on the bed, facing the wall draped in black cloth.
He opened the beer can bought last night, took a bite of bread, stood up, and tore off the black cloth, revealing the wall beneath.
The wall was covered with countless sticky notes, many black and white photos, and newspaper clippings, all pinned and interconnected by red threads, tangled like a spider's web.
Looking at a corner of the web, the person in the photo was very familiar, Bologue softly whispered his name, picked up a pen, and drew a red cross on the photo.
He was the last on the list, and before Geoffrey sent new intel, Bologue had nothing to do.
Sitting back on the bed, gazing at these "glorious achievements," Bologue felt calm, pondering what was next.
And then... the internship's end.
Bologue wasn't sure of his direction ahead — being thrown back into the Black Prison or becoming one of Geoffrey's affiliates — but what was certain was that he couldn't return to the Black Prison.
He bent over, hands resting on his face, a contemplative posture.
The life in the Black Prison, isolated from the world, left Bologue completely disconnected; even after a year of transition, he still felt somewhat lost. In this city, he had no real friends or familiar faces; he'd occasionally visit Adelle, but with her passing, his last connection vanished, leaving him all alone.
No demons needed hunting, nor any relatives to visit, as for family...
Bologue didn't continue to think about that.
After a brief confusion, Bologue returned to the living room, casually picked up a record, placed it on the player, and soon music began to play.
Perhaps due to the Black Prison experience, Bologue was easily satisfied, not materialistic, his only hobbies being music and recreating historical battles on the sand table.
The rising music carried noise and distortion, but that couldn't be helped, the player had been scavenged from the flea market, a secondhand relic, still functioning was already a miracle.
Humming along, Bologue pondered that this weekend marked the end of the internship, the moment deciding whether he'd stay or leave. He had to admit, he was a bit anxious, unsure of how to spend this rare free time today.
"Indeed, can't be locked back there."
After a brief thought, Bologue let out a long sigh.
Adelle's hatred, suppressing bulimia nervosa, the possibility of completing his soul... and those most significant things.
What exactly did Bologue trade with the Devil?
He couldn't remember, that piece of memory seemed deliberately erased, he couldn't even recall the Devil's face, name, only the existence of a transaction, as for its content, he was clueless.
From what he recalled, when Bologue awoke, everything was already over...