After blowing up Mecoboy with a makeshift firecracker and arguing with a nine-year-old for saying that Mario Bros. is “very realistic,” Darkar plopped down on the couch like someone giving up, but in style. He had that hollow look of someone who had already made fun of everything that could be made fun of that day and had run out of emotional fuel. In one hand, the cell phone. In the mind, a void as comfortable as your seat.

He swiped the screen reluctantly. Videos, faces, hashtags with false causes. Everything seemed the same to him: noise with makeup. He laughed to himself, but without sound. Even that didn't come naturally lately. He wasn't sad. Nor angry. Just... annoyed to exist with so much filler and so little meaning.

The room was silent, except for the faint hum of the fan and the distant echo of Agüelo singing something about the Apocalypse in the bathroom. Darkar sighed. He didn't even know if he was doing it out of fatigue or pure habit. There it was. A guy with too many ideas, surrounded by idiots, slipping into a phone that no longer had anything new to say to him. And yet... he didn't move. Because sometimes, being fed up is more comfortable than trying to change something.

—A video of those shitty pugs again?

he exclaims, clearly starting to get annoyed.