Ethan, an aimless man in his early 20s, working a soulless job

Ethan shifted gear into park, turned the engine off, and sat silently in the covered car park for a few minutes. As he sat staring at the paint flaking off the concrete wall, he tried to let go of the drudgery of his day at the office. It was the same cycle: uncomfortable small talk, boring emails and never-ending spreadsheets.

He stepped out of his shitbox Toyota, locked the doors, and climbed the steps up to his apartment door. It was the last door on the top of a short walkway over the courtyard. He turned the key and flopped onto the couch. His place was a decently sized one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a small complex a few miles south of downtown. It was a run-down building and the whole neighborhood felt like it was on the decline, but his rent wasn't bad for a single person and it was a quiet spot. Ethan wasn't fastidious, but he did his best to keep his room clear of microwave food wrappers and tried to vacuum the floor at least once a week. It was a little late--his boss had asked him to stay late for a meeting-- so he decided to warm up a frozen dinner.