Another light in the black shop was broken.
I'm too lazy to fix it, since this crappy place doesn't need any lighting anyway. The sun in the wasteland has long since died, and the gray cloud of radiation is always hanging in the sky. The light is like solidified pus, sticky and sticky on every inch of the land.
Hanging on the wall behind the counter is a row of glass jars filled with liquids of various colors. The red ones are like blood, the green ones are like bile, and the purple ones are like rotting entrails. The labels read "ten-year life-sustaining pills," "thirty-day life-sustaining potion," and "power awakening essence"—all waste products.
Only the system can produce real life-extending pills, and one pill is worth a hundred of the fake pills I pieced together in the wasteland.
But I won't sell the real thing.
What a loss.
"Boss, can I really live for another ten years?"
