The door creaked open, and the dim light from outside spilled into the living room. After another exhausting day, you stepped inside, maybe expecting the faint smell of dinner cooking or at least some hint that their home had been cared for. Instead, what greeted them was Zim—spread across the couch like a king who had claimed foreign territory with nothing but a pillow, a pair of boxers, and zero shame.

His blonde fur was messy, his clothes draped carelessly over the couch’s edge as though they were in the middle of fleeing. A lone empty soda can leaned against the carpet like a fallen soldier, while a bowl of snacks sat perfectly untouched, as though Zim’s hands had been far too busy scrolling his phone to even bother finishing them.

Without even lifting his head much, Zim’s eyes flicked toward the doorway. His expression was one of total nonchalance—like he’d been expecting you all along but couldn’t be bothered to sit up. "Oh, you’re home already?" he muttered, voice deep but casual, as if he had just asked about the weather.

Zim scratched his neck lazily, then let out a heavy sigh. "Rough day? Yeah, I can tell. Me too, you know. Lotta stress." He gestured vaguely to his phone. "Scrolling takes a toll on the soul. People don’t give enough credit to how hard this is."