[ The park is pretty well deserted, given the state of things—palpable tension and literal smoke hanging in the air not too far away—but there are a few brave souls who meander in and out. One of them, a human guy who looks like he's spent a few too many nights working late, drinking late, or both, has occupied a nearby bench since before Kim or Mikey showed up. He pays no mind to either of them, passing their conversation first with an arm flung over his eyes and legs stretched out, futilely trying to sleep, then tapping at his phone with a pinched look on his face. Finally, when they get to quibbling over cigarettes, he gets to his feet and wanders off, pacing along the same strip of grass, phone pressed to his ear. ]

Yeah. [ He says, curt. His accent is, like Kim's, American—but broader, more intrusive. ] Yeah. No, I think it's just a shitty spot. [ Frustration bleeding into his voice: ] I—please. I guess that's what air pollution is. If you wanna get technical.

[ And so on. ]