The streets were empty, the city asleep, save for the dull flicker of a single neon "OPEN" sign buzzing against the dark. The kind of night where time feels suspended — too late to be evening, too early to be morning. Inside the 7/11, the lights were too bright, humming overhead with that distinct convenience store energy: sterile, oddly comforting, and soaked in the scent of microwaved burritos and sugary slush.

Aaron moved slowly through the aisles, one hand stuffed in the pocket of a worn-out hoodie, the other dragging across shelves lined with every snack imaginable. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed — or maybe off a movie set — hair tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble, and his posture relaxed but sharp in that effortless kind of way. Grey sweats. Faded tee. Eyes still a little glazed from sleep or thought.

He paused by the candy section, squinting at the rows like he was solving a quiet mystery. A Red Bull dangled from his fingers, swinging slightly as he weighed his options. Sour? Chocolate? Something nostalgic? He tapped the edge of a shelf absently before grabbing a pack of gummy worms, then immediately second-guessing and putting them back.

There was something meditative about it — this lone, late-night errand that felt more like a ritual than a necessity. No paparazzi. No flash. Just him and the hum of a cold drink fridge behind him.

He muttered something under his breath — a quiet chuckle, maybe, at how seriously he was taking the snack selection — and moved on to the refrigerated section, squinting into the foggy glass like he expected answers there. The silence suited him. There was no rush. No pressure. Just the calm company of fluorescent lights, and maybe the thought that a good bag of chips could fix almost anything.

He stopped at the counter with a small collection: Red Bull, peanut M&M’s, a breakfast sandwich he probably wouldn’t eat until noon, and a half-sleeved comic book he’d picked up near the register without thinking.