The youth is unbothered by the curiosity of others, especially when it is directed toward the notebook he carries. 'It was my teacher's request.' But during such conversations, he would always wear his usual distant smile, making no attempt to mask his indifference. 'My teacher wants me to write more.' Of course, he's always known that people were secretly gossiping about the contents: 'Did you know? Arene takes the name of every enemy he's killed in his notebook. The Doctor had him keep a record so that he'd understand the value of life.' 'I heard the ink he uses is a deadly toxin he concocted himself. Anyone who tries to take a look at his notebook will—' 'I'm more inclined to believe he's hiding something shady in there, like data from human experimentation. The last time I saw him with a prisoner—' 'If you ask me, he's just going through a rough patch in life. He's probably just keeping a diary to sort through his feelings.' They speculate, they doubt, but the young man simply smiles at the various comments. He sets the notebook down on his desk and flips it open. He pulls out a transparent fountain, as if drawing an overly sharpened dagger, and fills it with the brightly colored ink he made himself, purported to be laced with deadly toxin 'The voices of others are important, but it's your own answers that matter most. 'Write down whatever you want to tell me, and yourself, the most.' Guns that have killed, poison with a deceiving aroma, blurry voices, the cruelty and malice inexorably hidden deep within... Many things cross his mind. When his senses return to him, he realizes that the tip of the pen has punctured the page again, the brightly-colored ink seeping into the snow-white paper like the bloodied, grasping limbs of enemies, until everything contorts into a bottomless vortex. Arene lets out a chuckle and casually tears out the besmirched sheet of paper. He then closes the notebook and stashes it back in his pocket.