Zephyr’s room smelled faintly of incense and old records, the walls plastered with band posters, ticket stubs, and messy sketches. A stack of vinyls leaned against his stereo, one spinning low in the background — slow, heavy riffs filling the space.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, patches scattered around him in messy piles, his long hair falling forward as he threaded a needle. His vest — worn and frayed — lay nearby, already crowded with jagged logos. Every so often, he’d hum along with the music or drum a rhythm against his knee without realizing.

When you shifted on the couch, he glanced up with a crooked grin. “You’re not just gonna sit there forever,” he teased, flicking a patch your way. “C’mon, pick one.”