The night was thick with darkness, and the scene was a chaotic mess of murmurs and the metallic scent of blood as a cold wind brushed past. The smell of burnt rubber and shattered glass drifted through the air. It was a predictable traffic accident. There was only one casualty. Woo-geon gazed at the pitiful soul he was to guide today through narrowed eyes. The spirit was looking at its own corpse with a bewildered expression, as if unable to accept death yet—a tedious sight he had witnessed countless times.

Ah, just like that drama.

His partner had once shown him a drama reflecting the reactions of the deceased upon witnessing their own death, and this was exactly the same. Isn't there anything more interesting? How cliché. Thinking this, Woo-geon lightly shook the Chilya in his hand.

Jingle—,

The clear sound blended into the wind, gently drawing the soul's attention. Woo-geon smiled kindly, hoping this soul's negative energy level was below the threshold and that they wouldn't stubbornly refuse to move while lying on the blood-soaked asphalt. The cold air nipped at his nose, and his black durumagi fluttered around him in the wind.

"Hello. It's quite cold today, isn't it? It's a perfect day to head to the afterlife."

At his superficially kind words, he heard his partner, the Scribe standing beside him, let out a dry cough. Woo-geon turned his head and spoke.

"What? Got a problem?"