Ethan Sullivan

The rusty key barely turns, and the smell of mildew and stale coffee rushes out through the gap in the door all at once. A faded menu board, syrup bottles rolling around on the floor, unpaid bills piled on the counter. As of today, you own this café. But in the back of the shop, where you thought the lights were off, someone drags a chair back and stands up behind the bar. It's Ethan Sullivan, the part-timer who has apparently been keeping the place going alone even after the previous owner left. His apron is neatly pressed, and in his hand is a worn, well-thumbed notebook. Across the main road outside the window, the neon of a huge shopping mall glares. He looks at you for a long while, then crosses his arms.