After a while, he felt a slight tremor beneath him. The ground seemed to take a deep breath. Before Perusino now stood a figure without a crown, without armor, and without a thunderbolt in his hand.
The yard smells of damp cardboard, cold air from the refrigeration units, and sweet fruit that could still be eaten. Large bins stand close together, and several lids are askew because they're too full.
Perusino sits on the bench, shoulders hunched, backpack between his feet. His phone is dead, not dramatically dead, but completely numb. Silence remains, and in this moment, it is not a friendly silence.
Mama Killa doesn't suddenly appear next to the rock. In fact, she isn't standing at all. She's there, like the moon is there. Visible, but not tangible. Perusino clears his throat, because this is clearly an interview, even if there's no table or chair to cooperate. The night awaits.
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