窗外的雨停了，但林枫心里的烦闷没散。他点上一支烟， smoke curling up like lazy snakes in the dim glow of his room, the screen casting a sickly light on his face. He keeps replaying the interview in his head, the way that interviewer's eyes narrowed when he mentioned his weird background. Like he saw something wrong, something unmarketable.

"Shit." He crushed the cigarette under his heel, smoke stinging his eyes. The floorboards groaned under his weight. He needs a drink. Always the same damn cycle. Get his hopes up, then get stomped on. It's like some twisted god is playing tennis with his life, hitting it back every time he tries to score.

He stands up, swaying a bit. The alcohol in his system doing more than it should. He walks towards the window, rainwater dripping from the sill onto the concrete below. There's a flicker of lightning, brief but bright, illuminating the street outside in a ghostly white. Or maybe it's just the weed. Yeah, that's it. Too much weed. He needs to cut back.