Karen sighed as she trudged through the park, following the gray pathway that cut through the sea of grass, a beautiful shade of green. Even the scenery wasn't enough to make her feel less anxious.

Or determined.

She had a deadline, tomorrow night, and no story. Nothing. None of her article ideas worked out, and if she couldn't find a new one, she'd be in big trouble. She was the newbie reporter, and this was one of her first real chances at getting to the top. Getting into a position where people would read her stories, and she'd write them about the big problems, and speak out against things, and she'd help people.

But not if she couldn't find a story.

No, if she couldn't find a story, it would be disappointed looks, and a rush to fill the gap, and it would honestly, probably be her last serious chance at an article.

But she couldn't let that happen. No, she was going to find a story if she had to run herself into the ground doing it.

As she walked, rounding a corner, she heard a rhythmic strumming that pushed her thoughts to the back-burner, and she stopped dead, frowning. It was a lovely sound, a guitar being played, sad, somehow.

Karen made a 360 turn to try and locate where the sound was coming from, and she spotted him. Sitting underneath a tree to the left. He wasn't too far away, and from what she could see, he looked tired, worn out. There were dog tags around his neck, and he wore all black, aside from the skull print on his shirt. It was faded, the white chipping away.

The reporter's energy flooded back in seconds. This could be it, her story. It might not be anything big, but it could be enough to keep her afloat until the next issue.

She stepped into the grass, wandering over, heart beating fast as she planned her approach. Ask him what he was playing, introduce herself, ask if he'd mind being written about? And ask, of course, about the dog tags.

Those could make or break it, decide whether this story would be about a tired but commercially unappealing man wearing tags, or the completely marketable story of a tragic veteran.

Karen hated thinking of people in this way, but, unfortunately, she had to. If she wanted to keep her job that is.

As she approached, the man kept playing as if he didn't notice her, but he did. His shoulders shifted slightly, so now he looked tense and wary, as if he were trying to fold into himself and disappear. It was also made obvious by the fact that he glanced up at her every couple of seconds.

Karen stopped right in front of him and put on her most charming smile. The man looked up at her. The smile didn't seem to do much.

"Hi!" She said cheerfully. "What are you playing?"

He kept looking at her. She was very uncomfortable, but not in the "this man is a creeper" sort of way. No, it was more of a "this man is potentially dangerous and may not hesitate to kill me" sort of way.

But she really needed a story.

"Uh, so, I was wondering-"

"I don't do any friggin' requests, ma'am."

Karen blinked for a moment, surprised by his simultaneous bluntness and politeness. His voice was gruff and irritated. Quickly, she realized that the glare she had been receiving earlier had been out of agitation of other passerby interrupting his guitar playing.

"I wasn't asking about a request."

"Oh." The man blinked. He looked down, almost ashamedly, and sniffed a bit. "So why're you here?"

"Well, I'm Karen Page, journalist for the New York Bulletin. I was wondering if you would let me write an article about you?"

He squinted in a way that was almost adorable, like a small child would in confusion.

"Why me?"

"Oh, well, I just thought that an article about someone like you might be interesting!" Karen immediately regretted her stupid choice of words and prepared for the man to go off on her.

To her surprise, he smiled, and his smile definitely was adorable. His lips curved upwards into a sort of u-shape, almost like he was trying to hold his smile back. It didn't quite meet his eyes, though, which glittered with a teasing light.

"Someone like me?"

"Uh, well, I meant...uh, just, you, know, the dog tags and, uh..."

"Marine. They're a reminder."

Karen nodded and stood awkwardly. He didn't seem to be elaborating, as he went back to strumming on his guitar.

As she stood there, she noticed a light layer of grime that covered the man's skin. If it was what she thought, this could be a new angle. Maybe...

She had barely opened her mouth, however, when the man said, "I'm not homeless, either. Sorry, ma'am, but there ain't much of a story here."

Karen sighed in frustration as he destroyed her last idea. That was it. The Marine angle could've worked, but he obviously wasn't opening up about it.

But...

She needed that story.

"Sir, would you just consider an interview? Something? I...I have a deadline for tomorrow and you're my only shot at any sort of story." She confessed. "Please, sir?"

The man smiled again, glancing up again. "Ah, so I'm a commercial interest?"

Karen nodded apologetically, and the man stopped strumming his guitar and sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Sure. Why not? Sit down. Ask away."