Sweep, sweep, sweep..

He hated every second of it.

What was he doing here, sweeping dirt into the corners of a tourist trap, shackled in human flesh. The cassette player on his hip—a ridiculously cheap gift from the ever-optimistic Soos and Melody—pumped out an unremarkable tune, tinny and distorted through the cheap headphones. He had no choice but to listen, to absorb the banality of the human condition in all its repetitive, miserable glory.

Soos, with his wide, earnest grin, always so eager to please, so blind to the fact that Bill Cipher was trapped inside this frail, detestable body. And Melody—gods, that woman, always smiling, always laughing as if the world weren’t rotting from the inside out. They were oblivious, and it irked him.

Sixer had come back, after his long voyage with Stanley, and every encounter was a tense, unspeaking battle of wills. Bill could see the rage simmering beneath his composed façade. It took every ounce of restraint for Ford not to throttle him every time they crossed paths in the narrow halls of the Shack. Or drop kick him. Probably both.

The door creaked open behind him, snapping Bill out of his bitter reverie. A breeze from outside drifted in, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth. He turned lazily, expecting another group of wide-eyed tourists eager to gawk at whatever ridiculous “mystery” Soos had set up for them today. Instead, a lone figure stood quietly at the entrance, silhouetted by the fading light.

A girl.

He kept sweeping, but his eye followed her every movement. She moved slowly, pausing at various shelves and displays as if they held some deep meaning she needed to decipher. Bill found himself sneering at the thought.

This place? Meaning? Pffttt. Give me a break.