The painter opened his eyes.
Then closed them.
It must be a dream.
That's what he thought.
Because what the painter saw was himself strapped to a scaffold high up in the air, the scaffold extending from the rooftop—he was a painter and could imagine that he now looked like a sausage being roasted.
And he was only wearing a pair of shorts.
But after closing his eyes for three seconds, he realized the wind was making him very cold, and moreover, there were sounds of footsteps and voices coming from behind.
"Hey! What's going on here?" an old man's voice called out, "Don't die on my building, eh!"
Hm?
The painter slowly realized something was amiss.
"Just wait, don't move, don't you move now, you're in great danger," the old man shouted, "I'm going to call for help."
Call for help?
The young painter hadn't yet figured out what would happen next; he was questioning why he was there in the first place.
Himself...
He was there to look for the Fox, right?
