If he'd known it was going to rain, he wouldn't have chosen today to walk home. The setting sun accompanied by rain clouds bathes the sky in sullen shades of deep purple, orange, and yellow. It's pretty. Fascinating, even. It's rare to see the weather like this. Reminds him of that one song by Creedence Clearwater Revival—a group from the late sixties. Abel's kind of music. Come to think of it, he can't even name one other song by them.    He's sitting by himself in the lobby, his bony form sunken right into one of the sofas. Calloused fingers pick idly at strings on his guitar as he watches water droplets race to the bottom of the window pane through amber-flecked hues. He feels like singing. He'll maybe just mumble a few lines of a song while he strums because his voice is pretty terrible. From all the smoking, I mean. Hell, from all sorts of different toxins tearing down his throat. It's not even just his singing—his speaking voice has been weakened since he'd started aggressively drinking. He's one tragic, pitiful mess of a boy.  And he'll continue on with this half-hearted singing of his until he's met with the presence of a stranger. His voice'll fade out. Pretend like he wasn't singing just then.

and so that's what he does, one day when they're talking mindlessly as they do. he slings a comfortable arm over the trainee's shoulder, cheshire grin in place but slightly more concerned than usual. "so, jiminnie," he near coos, hand patting at the boy's shoulder lazily. "where's all your stuff been going to nowadays? don't lie -- i know that something's happening, and i want to help."