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Early dawn, Arsen Foster woke up in his single apartment to the crisp sounds of chirping birds.

The sun shone on his face through the windows, bringing an air of warmth to the cool morning.

"Phew!"

Arsen gently pushed open the window and exhaled the sleep built up in him overnight and stretched lazily afterward.

The man who was born with a silver spoon found a surprising amount of leisure and excitement that he had been missing for a while in a plain little apartment like this one.

Before properly getting up, Arsen could not resist the urge to look at his arms again – this was the first thing he did every morning.

He saw two well-built, delicate, and clean arms, their fingers were slender and full of strength with hardly a trace of wrinkles on them.

Nobody would have believed you if you said that this was a pair of arms that belonged to a sixty-five-year-old man.