He’s chained to the hiss of carbonation, a slave to the crack of the can and the fleeting, empty satisfaction of the fizz. Every sip is a lie, a moment of sparkling betrayal that mocks him as it burns its way down. His thirst isn’t for water or relief; it’s for the ritual, the fix. Soda water isn’t a drink—it’s his master, yanking his strings, pulling him into the same stale dance over and over. The man is a marionette, limbs jerking to the rhythm of addiction, and the worst part? He knows it. But knowing doesn’t free him. It tightens the grip.