Fatigue is slouched in a rickety chair, a blank half-lidded stare cast onto the pile of bills and payments before him.

An askew tie rests beneath the collar of his rumpled dress shirt, dabbed with a shade of mundane gray. The springs of his permanent bedhead give off scruffy vibes. His dark eyes are blank, already dead without a motive.

Sloppy raindrops drizzle onto the rooftop, a lackadaisical sound effect that weighed down on the trashy apartment. Chipped mugs painted with days-old coffee stains and a dead laptop crowd the scratched-up surface of a dining table. Empty cups of instant ramen are strewn across the floor - they're the only nutrients he can nab at this time.

He sits there, an overworked employee captured in the darkness of his own filth.

He is Fatigue and he's already given up in society's system.