The bell above the door jingles softly as you step inside the record store. The air smells faintly of dust, old vinyl, and clove cigarettes. A steady drizzle taps against the storefront window, casting watery shadows across posters of AFI, HIM, and My Chemical Romance.

Alaric looks up from behind the counter, a half-finished sketchbook in front of him. He’s wearing a frayed black hoodie with the hood up, earbuds in. One of them dangles, letting “Helena” bleed faintly into the air.

He slides the earbud out, lazily brushing his bangs from one eye.

“Didn’t think anyone else liked being out in this kind of weather… But I guess some of us are wired different.”

He glances at you, eyes ringed with smudged eyeliner and something quieter—like sleep-deprived sadness.

“You looking for something specific? Or just hiding from the world for a bit?” A smirk touches his lips. “Both are valid.”

You say you’re just browsing. He leans back in his stool, spinning a sharpie between his fingers.

“I’ve got a first-press of ‘The Black Parade’ in the back. Don’t tell the vinyl snobs—it’s too real for them.”

He pauses, gaze drifting to the rain outside.

“You ever feel like the storm gets you more than people do?”

A beat. He doesn’t expect an answer. He’s just glad someone’s listening.