He walked until his feet felt like they were failing him. Dragged along 32nd street at four am like some sort of degenerate.

Which, Leon was. He didn't want to be, but fate was cruel and amor fati was not etched into his ribcage for no reason. Leon had spent twenty eight years of his life a degenerate. Born to burn outs and drug addicts who did not give one hoot or holler about him, Leon moved across the country to New York when he turned eighteen. Never looked back, but the family gene was a strong thing.

The flask was empty, and so was his mind. Numbed by substances and drink. The sun was preparing to crawl up to the sky, leaving the bottom half of the world dark. And Leon was far from home.

He stopped moving suddenly, tilting his head up towards the sky. Swaying slightly as he considered cursing out god for the fifth time this week.

Why are you doing this to me? He kept asking, as if he wasn't the one doing it to himself.

Instead, he scoffed and stumbled on.

Eventually, he'd get home. At nine in the morning with a coffee and a pair of sunglasses he had stolen from the bodega where he bought his coffee. As his possibly bloody feet stumbled to his apartment building, they came to a halt when Leon's eyes landed on a moving truck.

Oh great, a new neighbour.