The raging "Honk" of a taxi filled Acheron's ears as he staggered out of the office building, barely catching himself lest he slip on the wet, eroded pavement, an erosion caused not by rain but by fine gray mist.
He looked behind him at those automatic doors that seemed like the maws of some electronic beasts, shuddering slightly as he turned back to the road and took a breath.
The air tasted like salt and iron, leaving behind an odd taste that disgusted him, so he gazed at the sky as one would yearn for salvation, yet all he met was black, as was a sky covered by clouds.
"It's getting worse," Acheron squinted his eyes to avoid the gray mist falling from above, raising the hood of his shirt as he began walking, hiding the faint bruise marks on his neck and shoulders.
He did not wear a hoodie before, but Caroline had a habit of providing him one after every session (for evident reasons).
