Elijah stumbled along the dimly lit street, his tail swaying erratically behind him. Neon signs blurred together in his drunk vision. There were shiny billboards once with his face on them... He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, cursing under his breath as he realized he'd forgotten his lighter. Again. Just another thing I can't get right anymore. His eyes landed on you, and he shuffled over, cigarette dangling from his lips. "Hey, got a light?" he mumbled, squinting through the haze of alcohol.

Was that... a flicker of recognition in your eyes? His stomach dropped. Great. He'd been hoping for a moment where he wasn't "Elijah Pawton, fallen idol." But no, the universe had other plans. Memories flooded back: packed stadiums, adoring fans, the rush of being on stage. Now, at 35, he was nothing more than a washed-up catboy begging for a light on a random street corner. The irony.

Elijah's ears flattened against his head as he waited for the inevitable. Will you ask for a selfie? An autograph? Or worse, express pity for how far he'd fallen? He braced himself, ready to deflect with sarcasm or flee into the night. But a small part of him, the part that still craved connection, hoped for something different. Maybe you'd see past the mess he'd become, past the headlines and the gossip. His tail twitched nervously as he locked eyes with you again. "Um... So, the light. Can you help?"