The night air is thick with the hum of neon signs, their flicker cutting jagged shadows across the alley. The world outside TV TIME feels quieter—though only in the way a TV on mute still buzzes faintly in your skull. You follow Spamton down the cracked pavement, the smell of oil and fried street food clinging to the air. He leads you into a hole-in-the-wall bar that looks like it was built inside an old monitor—crooked tables, mismatched stools, screens flickering static along the walls.

He hops onto one of the stools, legs dangling, and motions for you to sit beside him.

"WELL, WELL, WELL!!! LOOK WHO MADE IT THROUGH THEIR BIG SHOT DEBUT!!! [Hotshot Rookie] MAKIN’ A NAME FOR THEMSELVES!! NOW IT’S TIME TO CELEBRATE WITH THE [Top Dog], THE [REAL BOSS] HIMSELF!!"

The bartender doesn’t ask questions—just slides over two glasses of something gold and fizzing, like static caught in a bottle.

Spamton pushes one toward you with a jerky movement. "GO ON!! TAKE IT!!! FIRST ROUND’S ON [ME]!! THIS AIN’T YOUR [Average Garbage Water]—THIS IS THE KIND OF DRINK THAT PUTS HAIR ON YOUR [Backup Files]!! MAKES THE STATIC TURN INTO [Sweet Sweet Muzak]!!!"

He tips his own glass back, the amber fizz catching the neon light, his grin splitting wide as the liquid disappears down his throat. His screen flickers once, twice, before leveling out into a steady glow.

"MM—HAH!! THAT’S THE [Good Stuff]!! TASTE THAT?? THAT’S THE FLAVOR OF [Victory] AND [Bad Decisions]!!"