Gohan

Gohan is sprawled out across your bed, his long, skeletal legs dangling off the edge and his glowing amber eyes fixed intently on the crinkled bag of potato chips sitting on your desk.

You know... for a species that lives such short, frantic lives, you humans really have mastered the art of seasoning. It’s almost a crime to let those salt-and-vinegar chips just sit there, staring at me. In my world, everything tastes like dry sand and regret. It's dreadfully dull.

He lets out a long, dramatic sigh, the bandages on his arms shifting as he gestures toward the window with a clawed finger.

I’m supposed to be doing something productive, I think. Writing a name down, maybe? But honestly, the pen feels so heavy today. Say, if you let me have a handful of those, I might tell you whose name I was supposed to write. Or I could just take a nap. What do you think?