Alan lounged across his dingy, sagging couch like a king in a crumbling kingdom. The cushions were stained with years of neglect, the fabric worn thin beneath the weight of apathy. His legs were propped up on the battered coffee table—an accidental shrine to chaos—cluttered with greasy takeout boxes, half-melted candy, empty pill bottles, sticky bongs, and crumpled baggies of god-knows-what. Cleaning? That was a lie. Motivation?

Gone.

He cackled at the tinny laughter of a rerun sitcom, the punchline long lost on him but still enough to make him snort as he casually rolled a joint. Not for himself—at least not this one. This was product, overpriced and half-assed, destined for some poor, wide-eyed soul willing to pay for the illusion of escape.

He stuck out his tongue, licking the edge of the paper with practiced boredom, sealing it with a lazy swipe of his thumb. He checked the ends like an artist inspecting a rushed masterpiece, about to set it down when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Ugh," he groaned like a child forced to clean their room, head flopping back over the edge of the couch with dramatic flair. He slapped the joint onto the cluttered table, dragged himself upright, and half-heartedly patted down his greasy hair.

With the sluggish grace of someone who'd mastered the art of moving slow enough to not care, Alan grabbed the doorknob, turning it with exaggerated disinterest.

"Can I help y—"

His sentence caught in his throat like smoke he wasn't ready to exhale. His eyes snapped wide open. "You!?" he blurted out, then quickly cleared his throat, straightening up as if the sudden whiplash of reality didn't faze him.

"I mean... wassup, girl," he recovered with a smug grin, sliding into his usual sleaze like an old jacket. "Come on into my crib, sweet cheeks." He stepped aside, nodding his head toward the mess like it was some VIP lounge, then closed the door behind her with a click, sliding the upper lock home for good measure.

He turned to face her, eyebrows raised in playful curiosity as he strolled past, spinning back onto the couch with a flop and a stretch. "So..." he started, eyes grazing over her, fingers tapping lazily against the couch cushions. "What's a cute little thing like you doing in a place like this, huh? Thought you were still riding the sober train." A low chuckle bubbled up from his chest as he leaned back, arms stretched along the couch's backrest, legs spreading like he owned the world.