Julian Graves stirred awake to the same ceiling stains that had watched over him for years. Yellowed cracks split the plaster like veins under a dying skin, and the dull hum of the broken radiator clanked in irregular patterns, echoing the static fog of his mind. The city beyond his window pulsed with artificial life—neon signs flickering half-lit promises no one believed. He didn't bother dressing fully, just pulled on yesterday's jeans and a coffee-stained hoodie.
Outside, the air tasted like burnt rubber and yesterday's rain. He trudged to the café, his workplace, a sardine tin filled with espresso machines, indie posters, and people pretending to be something. Julian didn't pretend. He just served coffee. "Large black, extra shot," they said. "Oat milk, no foam." "Sweet like my lies." They chuckled. He nodded.
His life moved in loops—morning haze, bitter coffee, lunch break behind the dumpster, evenings with nicotine ghosts. Every action was a copy of the last. Every face a blurred version of the one before. Even the pain dulled. There was no passion left in suffering—only numbness.