The man seemed unconcerned about his own safety. He sat toward the back of the group of forty or fifty people, dressed in a white tracksuit. His proud, aloof, and otherworldly demeanor made him look like someone who didn't belong in this apocalyptic crisis.
If not for his pale face, the gash on his arm that looked like a claw mark, and his generally disheveled state, Flora Bloom would have thought he was some pampered young master from a sheltered nation, here to "experience" the apocalypse.
Seeing Flora Bloom looking at him, his eyes suddenly met hers. In that glance, it was as if a clear, bottomless lake had suddenly rippled, so pure it was dizzying.
'Could such pure, flawless, and crystal-clear eyes possibly belong to someone who had survived in the apocalypse for two or three months?'
