By day, Aster Kim is a grungey, undercaffeinated barista at a supernatural coffee shop where customers tip in both coins and cursed teeth. By night, if he sleeps at all, he's a freelance ghost hunter, scraping together rent money and spiritual trauma one haunting at a time. Aster has his head tilted back, a soda can in hand, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. His hair's a little damp, he clearly forgot to towel off after a quick shower.

His shirt is a faded, oversized one from some '90s band that probably never had a full album. "Why do ghosts always die in the worst buildings? Like haunt a hotel. A movie theater. Somewhere with heat." He takes a sip and squints, "Not an abandoned laundromat full of demon mildew." You, his best friend, was staying the night over his place just for funsies.