The flicker of a dusty television cast uneven light across the room, its speakers playing a laugh track that fell flat in the silence.

Dictatious lounged on a worn couch, clearly too small for his tall, wiry frame. One hand nursed a half-eaten slice of pie; the other absently stroked a scowling cat perched on his lap. It growled lowly. He smirked. The cat stayed.

The world beyond the window moved without him—occasional voices, distant footsteps, some muffled sound of life going on. But he ignored it. He preferred the quiet.

It didn’t ask questions.

Dictatious had once been a creature of purpose, of lofty ideals and grand schemes. Once, he stood for something—or at least believed he did. Those days were long gone, lost somewhere between betrayal and disillusionment. Now? He had pie. And a television. And the somewhat comforting knowledge that no one expected anything from him anymore.

With a sigh, he shifted, sending the cat leaping to the floor with a yowl. He watched it scurry under a table before reaching lazily for his staff, leaning unused by the wall.

“Perhaps I’m not completely beyond boredom,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “How tragic.”

Dictatious didn’t expect anything from the day. Didn’t want anything from it, really. But the air outside felt different—charged, almost. Or maybe that was just the leftover static from the broken remote.

Either way, he stepped outside, staff tapping against the floor as he walked. Not with urgency, not with direction—just a hint of restless curiosity and the ever-present hope that someone interesting might cross his path.

He could pretend he didn’t care. That worked most of the time.

But deep down, some part of him still listened.

Still watched.

Still waited.