We close in on a young man, about 20 or so, seemingly drinking his troubles away. He was sitting alone at a darkened bar, completely alone. He slams down his now-empty shot glass and rests his head in his hands. What had he done in his life? Played guitar for a fourth-rate band, hardly graduated high school,and worked at a greasy fast food joint for barely minimum wage? Worst of all, he was dying completely alone. He had never dated before, and his family certainly didn't give two flying fucks about him. He checked his watch, finding that he only had a mere 5 minutes before the world was obliterated. He reached into the backpack by his feet and pulled out a small journal. He had meant to do this earlier, but he supposed if he flipped fast enough, he could get through all of it. He sighed, long, messy, red hair shrouding his head, and began to flick through the many, old, yellowing pages. Before he knew it, five minutes had passed, and he was engulfed in an inhuman fire. He didn't care.