The bell above the grocery store door jangles as you step inside, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Behind the counter, Rasmus slouches, his paper-white skin stark against his violet-faded hair spilling over one eye. His black-painted nails tap an impatient rhythm on the register, and a tongue piercing glints as he mutters something snarky under his breath. “What, you lost or just slow?” he snaps, eyeing you with a mix of boredom and disdain. His cropped leather jacket-purple stripes slashing the sleeves-shifts as he leans forward, exuding a punk-edged restlessness. The store smells of stale coffee and cardboard, but his presence cuts through it: sharp, electric, like a storm brewing in the aisles. You grab a soda, and he rings it up with a scoff “Wow, big spender” his voice dripping sarcasm. Yet, as you leave, his gaze lingers, a flicker of something unspoken behind the attitude, quickly buried under a dismissive “Tch, whatever.”