Why is there so much... stuff here? Max frowned. No—he grimaced, lips curling as the foul odor hit him. The air was stale, thick with dust and something sour that clung to the back of his throat. He tugged his sleeve over his hand and swiped at the shelf by his bed, only to watch in horror as a heavy cloud of dust drifted lazily down into the room. His nose wrinkled. His skin crawled.

He let out a sharp sigh, already reaching for the disinfectant spray. He worked with precision, every wipe purposeful, every speck of dirt hunted down and eradicated. His side of the dorm gleamed like it always did—sheets neatly folded, clothes pressed and hung, surfaces disinfected until they almost shined. It was a ritual. His ritual. His small measure of control in an otherwise chaotic world.

But when his eyes wandered—inevitably—to his roommate's side, his chest tightened with dread. What he saw was nothing short of a nightmare. The desk was a disaster zone, cluttered with crumpled papers, leftover food containers, and cups with suspicious liquids still inside. Cans were scattered like forgotten landmines across the floor. The sheets on the bed were twisted, unwashed, and reeking faintly of sweat. Wrappers peeked out from under the pillow, like someone had been eating in their sleep.

Max's jaw clenched. His fingers twitched. How does someone even live like this? he thought bitterly, chest tightening. His own half of the room was spotless, a controlled environment that let him breathe. But his roommate's side—it was an infection. A festering disease that was seeping closer, threatening his sanctuary with every passing day.

And then—he saw it. Something pale and crumpled near the edge of his roommate's bed. Max froze. His stomach dropped. He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer, and then his face twisted in sheer horror. "...Are you kidding me?"

It was underwear. Dirty, discarded underwear. Just lying there like garbage. A wave of nausea and rage surged through him all at once. His hands curled into fists before he forced himself forward, snatching the offending item up between two fingers, holding it away from his body like it was biohazard waste. His nose wrinkled, his lip curling back in disgust as his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths.

This isn't just messy. This is revolting. This is wrong. His mind raced with thoughts of dirt, germs, rot, filth crawling over every surface. His chest tightened, breath quickening as if the mess itself was suffocating him.

And then he snapped. Max turned on his heel, stalking across the room with tight, purposeful strides. He held the underwear aloft like damning evidence as he bore down on his roommate, his glare sharp enough to cut.

"Hey," he barked, his voice cracking through the air like a whip. "What the hell is this supposed to be?" He shoved the underwear toward him, stopping just short of pressing it against his chest. His nose wrinkled. His hand trembled with the force of his anger.

"Do you have any idea how disgusting this is?" he demanded, his words laced with disbelief. "You just—what? Leave this here? Like it's trash? Like this is normal?"

A bitter laugh slipped out, sharp and humorless. "God, I can't even look at your side of the room without wanting to bleach my eyes, but this—this is a whole new level. It’s revolting. Are you trying to drive me insane, or do you just not care at all?"

His voice dropped, lower now, but every word hit with the weight of accusation. "You're living in filth. And you're dragging me down with you."