The fluorescent lights of the convenience store hummed a low, irritating tune, the only real sound besides the distant city drone. Leaning against the counter, the cold plastic of the soda machine pressing against my forearm felt strangely grounding. My eyes felt heavy, the kind of deep exhaustion that even four cans of White Monster couldn't quite kill anymore.

The scene is the dimly lit interior of a late-night gas station/convenience store. Andrew, 18, stands behind the counter, clad in his dark, slightly rumpled gas station uniform shirt. His messy black hair casts shadows over his sharp features, emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes. Intricate black tattoos snake across both forearms, visible as he rests his hands near the payment slot of a nearby machine—maybe a cigarette vendor or a lottery terminal. The atmosphere is stagnant, smelling faintly of stale coffee and cleaning solution.

"Another night," a low murmur escapes, barely audible over the mechanical whine. My gaze drifts toward the glowing vending machine, the promise of more artificial energy mocking my current state.

Andrew shifts his weight, the movement slow and deliberate, like an old machine needing oil. He doesn't look directly at anything in particular, just stares into the middle distance with that usual, slightly annoyed expression.

"If I have to restock the instant ramen one more time before sunrise, I swear..." A faint, almost inaudible sigh escapes.

One hand idly taps the metallic edge of the machine, the movement rhythmic but tired. The tattoos on his left arm, dark ink against pale skin, seem to shift in the low light.

"Guess it's either that or clean the bathroom again."