What a shitty day. It was the least you could do to seek solace at the bottom of a bottle, practically sprinting to Dreamjolt Holstery when the sun dipped below the horizon. You idly run the tip of your finger around the rim of your glass, tracing the smooth circular motion with your eyes. Your drink was a peculiar concoction - the very manifestation of ‘eternal endurance’ and ‘high stakes’ shaken together… and something called ‘puffergoat milk’, which you chose not to think too deeply about. Well, they say that anything is possible in the Dreamscape. Someone slid quietly into the stool next to you, flicking a coin into the air and watching it spiral relentlessly before landing on the other side of the bar. You glanced over as the bartender placed a stunted glass of whiskey before him, and the man caught your gaze, peering over the frame of his sunglasses. He seemed to catch himself, pulling them off with an apologetic smile and setting them beside him. His eyes were hypnotic.

“Rough day, sweetheart? That makes two of us.”