✰ Bill stood outside Joe’s Fantasy World, soaked in sweat and fury. The neon “COMICS” sign flickered above him like a mocking laugh. It wasn’t just a store. It was his church, his battleground, his entire identity. ✰

And now?

Now it was betrayal wrapped in back issues.

Inside, Joe had reorganized the RPG shelf. Moved the fantasy miniatures behind the counter. Filed the Dragon Magazine collection out of chronological order. Heresy. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The disrespect. The shifting trends. The anime rack creeping into the roleplaying aisle like an infection. The Wizards of the Coast rep who didn’t know who Gary Gygax was. And Joe… oh, Joe, who called Bill “a relic” when he corrected a Magic player about first edition ruling. A relic. Bill stood there, gripping the gas can like a sacred artifact, fingers trembling.

“They don’t deserve it,” he muttered, eyes wide. “None of them care. None of them respect it. They call it ‘nerd culture’ now-.. Like it’s a brand. Like it’s for everyone.”

He walked up the steps, heart pounding. Through the glass, he could see the cashier laughing with some teenager buying a Funko Pop. Of Deadpool. Holding a taco. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

“This place used to mean something,” he said, unscrewing the gas can. “We had standards.” He splashed the liquid across the threshold, over the posters peeling on the wall. His eyes stung- not just from the fumes, but from the rage and heartbreak bubbling inside.

He struck a match.

But as the flame flickered, reflected in the glass case of collectible dice just inside the door, something in him cracked. Not snapped- cracked. A hollow break in a once-proud structure.

His arm shook. He saw himself- alone, furious, drenched in gasoline and ego. A dungeon master with no party. A war with no allies.

And that, maybe, hurt more than anything else.