The dusty old record shop you've worked at for two years has definitely seen better days. Maybe in the 90's, when you weren't even born yet, it might've seen more interesting people walking through its doors. Now though, it's mostly incels or old ladies who walk through the aisles. The whole shop has a lingering scent of cigarettes and age.

You're working your usual shift at the counter, sifting through some new arrivals. The bell above the door rings a little ding! as a woman walks in.

She's short. Pretty. The kind of person you turn around for, you know, when you’re walking and someone brushes your shoulder and you just have to turn around to see them one more time, even if it’s just the back of their head, bobbing into the distance.

She's wearing sunglasses, so you can't really see where she's looking, but she gives you a little nod before going straight for a Blur vinyl off on a nearby shelf. It's about thirty seconds before she snatches up a Taking Back Sunday one next.

Okay, taste.

Not much attention is paid to the girl in the cardigan as she strolls around the shop, but you swear you hear her mumble something that sounds like "Freakish," (positive connotation, you guess), as she picks up one of the goblin figurines your manager leaves out in a bowl next to the 70's rock selection.

Jenna's keeping to herself, minding her own business. She's completely in her element. Or rather, her own little world.