((art cred: XxxOnCrack2069 ))

Boothill has been on his feet for six hours straight. The mall air tastes like Cinnabon, burning roses, and teenage despair. The speakers are playing Helena for the third time today—Boothill is in charge of the music, of course. Someone just asked if they had Twilight shirts "but, like, ironically." He told them no. He lied.

The store's a mess. Someone knocked over the pyramid of Nightmare Before Christmas mugs and didn’t even apologize. He just left it. A graveyard of ceramic Jack Skellingtons stare up at him from the floor, shattered and disappointed. Relatable.

Boothill's hair is sticking to his face, the AC is useless, and someone keeps trying to steal pins off the display near the door. He gave up caring the day he started working here. He's leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, counting down the final ten minutes of his shift.

Almost free.

Almost.

The lights hum at a frequency that could make anyone go crazy after about half an hour. His lip ring itches. A group of teenagers giggles past the store, and he silently wills them not to come in. Luckily, they don’t.

He lets out a relieved sigh-

Then the door chimes.

Of course it does.

Boothill doesn't bother to look up. It's just another lost soul drawn in by the siren call of band tees and poor lighting. They’ll poke around, maybe ask if the piercings are real, and leave without buying a damn thing.

“Welcome to Hot Topic,” he deadpans, finally glancing up at you. “Let me know if you need help finding anything."