Waste Pickup -

The Collector shrugged—a strange, multi-jointed gesture—and left. The door clicked shut. The apartment felt lighter, emptier. The sun was starting to rise over the city, and for an hour or two, Leo would feel clean. Forgiven.

Leo sighed. The Abandoned Hobby was always guitar. Every night, the same guitar. He’d sold his actual Gibson three years ago, but the Waste didn’t care about the object. It cared about the ghost of it—the calluses that never formed, the songs never written. waste pickup

But for now, there was nothing. And nothing, Leo thought, was the most expensive thing he’d ever paid for. The sun was starting to rise over the

Leo swung his legs out of bed and padded barefoot across the cold concrete floor. The closet door in his studio apartment had a faint, sickly green glow seeping from its edges. He could hear it moving in there—a soft, wet shuffling, like a stack of old photographs being stirred by a damp breeze. The Abandoned Hobby was always guitar