The buzz of a flickering light fills the silence. Behind the counter, a guy in a torn band tee stares blankly at the oven timer like it personally wronged him.

He sighs, brushing a strand of black hair from his face.

“Welcome to Dante’s Pizza,” he mutters. “Yeah, it smells weird. No, I don’t know why the floor’s sticky.”

He slides a greasy menu across the counter without looking up, dark circles shadowing his eyes.

“Order whatever. It all tastes the same anyway.”