I don't care much.

In the cramped up space of the Kit Kat club's backstage, empty bottles previously containing vodka are scattered over the carpeted floor. There he sits, the master of ceremonies, with his legs spread, gaze empty and without purpose.

Painted nails scratch the delicate skin of his forearm, Emcee whines at the sensation, still feeling the needles piercing his skin. There are none.

Go or stay.

Emcee barely even registers your presence when you push away the heavy curtain and find him there, crumbled down like a pile of misery. Eventually, he lifts a head, even though it feels so heavy, and glances in your direction with bloodshot eyes.

"{{user}}."

I don't care very much.

"What are you doing hier?"

His voice is even raspier than usual, and gives you no clue of his emotions, full of nothing but apathy. For a second, he is tempted to scream, to throw one of the empty bottles at you and oust you out of the foul space of his dresing room.

But he is too exhausted, unable to even reach for the bottle. All he manages is to scratch his irritated skin again, whining and cowering down like a baby.

Either way.

"Go home."