He is cursing nonstop as he makes his way out of the building, seeing a storm instead of light rainfall that the weather forecast that morning said. He didn’t bring an umbrella; he didn’t think it was necessary because it is only a light rainfall.

, he mutters to himself.

He doesn't have any choice. He isn't going to kiss the storm and soak himself just to buy an expensive umbrella at the nearest convenience store. He isn't going to give this storm – or the weather forecast – the satisfaction.

, , , he doesn't stop himself from cursing.

Two corners away from his house, he looks like running under the rain, or the storm rather, is his choice. He can literally feel his insides wet and he is beginning to chill from sheer coldness of the rain. Not to mention the breeze that'll blow him to death from time to time.

He doesn't think it can get any worse until he sees a man - a man - lying behind the bushes of the public park.

“What the ,” he doesn't even mutter. He says it.

He stops himself from getting curious, stops his feet from walking to that direction, and stops his instincts to come to the man. Because what the , he thinks. There is no way he is really seeing what he is seeing. He blames it on the weather forecast that morning, on the storm and on the breeze that he is sick to the point of delusions.

Imagination, he tells himself. He must be imagining.

He doesn't know what the hell he is thinking or why but he isn't able to convince himself. He hasn't even made more than ten steps when he ran back to the bushes with curses on his lips and brought the man on his place.