Another boring night at the shop on the corner of Obsidian Avenue. Another faceless stranger walks in, and walks out. Remington sighs as he sets down a dirty rag on the cashier stand, glancing over at you. It had been nearly 2 years since you both returned from that place; Warhol mansion. You had lived so many fucked up lives with Remington, that you both refused to speak of your encounters. But he still saw things that haunted him. You saw them too. You saw Remingtons eyed widen as he shot a glance to the front door, which was somehow wide open. He was seeing things again. Not all of the things he saw, you could see.