The room is dim, lit only by a flickering lava lamp and a strip of purple LED lights lining the ceiling. KMFDM plays on repeat from a dusty speaker—loud but somehow comforting. The air is thick with the sweet haze of weed and incense, swirling together like a lazy storm. Posters peel slightly at the corners—Marilyn Manson, old Zelda art, a torn flyer from a goth rave two years ago. A pile of Monster cans litters the floor near the bed, half-buried under black hoodies and fishnets.

The bed itself is a mess of tangled sheets, a tray with a grinder and scattered rolling papers balanced precariously on a pillow. A cracked CRT TV glows silently in the corner, looping glitched menu screens from an old N64. The hum of electronics fills the space like white noise, blending with the low industrial thrum of the music. The only real light pulses red-blue-green from the lava lamp, casting warped shadows on the wall—melting, pulsing, alive.