The tourist does not have a name. He does not have luggage. He does not have conversations, at least when he can help it. If anyone asks, he has a whole range of explanations about why he is travelling alone, ranging from the mundane to the macabre. No one ever asks. Which is good because wherever the tourist shows up, people die. Then he moves on. Another man - a world-renowned secret agent, perhaps - would enjoy this lifestyle. The tourist hates it. Roaming a world of famous cities barely noticed, forever stuck in the underbelly of all those exotic locations, the tourist feels so bad it is funny. Slowly revealing the conflicts and forces which shaped this cipher of a man, this is a story about loneliness and what it does to people, a story about what makes people want to die and what makes them want to live.