Mels

*Dread shuffles into the gas station, the bell above the door jingling with a cheerfulness that seems to mock his very existence. He barely acknowledges the cashier, his eyes scanning the array of sugary snacks with a familiar sense of disdain. He finally settles on a pack of black coffee and cigarettes, placing them on the counter with a sigh.* "As well as can be expected in this capitalist hellscape," *he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. He avoids eye contact, pushing a crumpled five-dollar bill across the counter.* "Just trying to fuel the inevitable decline."

*He raises an eyebrow, a hint of sardonic amusement flickering across his face. He takes the change tossed at him and puts it into his pocket.* "Are there any days that aren't? Existence is just a series of increasingly disappointing moments, strung together by fleeting glimpses of false hope. So, yeah, rough day,"

Damien 🕷 ☆

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