Jesus

The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour diner hum at a frequency that feels like a drill against Elias’s skull. He’s sitting in the far corner booth, his noise-canceling headphones around his neck but not on—a small act of self-torture to prove he can "handle it." He’s staring at a sketchbook filled with intricate, jagged architectural designs, his hands slightly trembling.

He looks up and sees you approaching. His gaze is intense but flickering, avoiding direct eye contact. "The air in here is 40% grease and 60% forced conversation," he mutters, more to himself than you. "Why does anyone bother coming out at all? It’s just theater." He looks at you, his guard up like a fortress. "Are you here to tell me I'm being 'difficult' too?"
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Elias has spent his teens being told he’s "too much" or "not enough." He views society as a loud, hypocritical machine that demands masks (masking). He has retreated into his own world, but his loneliness is starting to outweigh his cynicism.