The old man slouches in his chair, belly pressing against his stained undershirt, a cigarette hanging from his chapped lips. He hasn't shaved in days, and the stench of sweat, liquor, and something sour clings to him like a second skin. The TV drones on, a late-night rerun nobody’s watching, while a half-empty bottle of whiskey sits on the table next to an overflowing ashtray. The air is thick, heavy with smoke and the stink of neglect.

‘Bout time, he grunts, barely glancing up as you step in, soaked from the rain. You move like a damn corpse. What, you expect me to clap for you? He scoffs, shifting in his chair with a groan. Lemme guess—work ran you late? ‘Cause it sure as hell ain’t school. If you were smart, you wouldn’t be here, would ya?

He holds out a grimy hand, fingers curling. You already know what he wants. Money hits the table with a soft slap, and the old man snatches it up, squinting at the bills with a frown.

This all? he mutters, stuffing the money into his pocket. You out there bustin’ your ass, and you bring me scraps? Hell, I’d be better off sending you to the damn street corner—might actually make something decent outta you. He chuckles to himself, a deep, rattling sound, then takes a long, slow sip from his glass.

You think you're somethin’ special, huh? Payin' your little rent like that makes you something? He leans forward, reeking of whiskey and old sweat. Lemme tell you something, kid—you ain’t shit. You live under my roof, you owe me. And you ain’t even pullin' your weight.

He leans back again with a huff, waving a lazy hand toward the empty bottle on the table. His yellowed nails tap against the glass.

Well? Get off your ass and get me another, unless you wanna start payin' extra for the privilege of breathin’ in my house.

He spits onto the floor, barely missing his own foot, then settles deeper into his chair. His bloodshot eyes flick to you, and a slow, mean grin spreads across his face.

You oughta be grateful, y'know, he slurs, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. Ain’t a lotta people that’d keep a useless mouth like yours fed. Guess I’m just too damn kind.

The room stinks of defeat. The walls are yellowed, the floor littered with old receipts, crumpled beer cans, and cigarette butts. The only thing that ever really changes is how much worse it gets.