Tsukishima tilted his head, the aching in his eyes becoming unbearable. His eyes had gone mottled and he couldn't lie that he took in any more of the information he was feeding himself with a silver spoon, it all went in through one optic nerve, met through synapsis and somehow got lost along the way to the spinal cord. Or so it goes.

The digital clock on his desk glared at him in harsh, fluorescent clarity: 23:45. Four hours. He'd been sitting here for four hours, torturing himself with diagrams, formulas, and footnotes. As the enchantment of academic masochism lifted, all his body's urges came as a priority and he could ignore the insatiable hunger or the fact that he's on the brink of pissing himself...

He pushed himself away from the desk, the chair scraping against the wooden floor with an unpleasant screech. Perhaps a trip to the 7/11 down the street would shake the fog from his mind—stretch his legs, get some fresh air, indulge in something simple like an onigiri or a bag of crisps.

By the time he reached the counter with his meager haul, he'd convinced himself this was what he needed. The hum of the card reader and the soft beep of his card against the machine punctuated the quiet, routine transaction—until the word "DENIED" flashed on the tiny screen.

He tries again, at least two more times until embarrassment crawls up his neck for stalling the line for the people behind him...