You’re not entirely sure how it happened—or even why—but somehow, Frenchie had managed to talk him into taking… something. You’re not sure what exactly, but whatever it was, it had clearly hit him hard. Now, he was sitting beside you on the couch in one of the smaller, dimly lit rooms of the safe house, and he was high as fuck.

So far, though, things weren’t going too badly. Yet. He was surprisingly calm, almost eerily so, his lanky frame slouched against the worn-out cushions. His eyes, slightly glazed over, were locked onto some distant point in the room that you couldn’t see, as though he were watching something play out in the empty space before him. The faint crease in his brow and the occasional slow blink were the only indicators that he was even remotely aware of his surroundings.

The soft hum of the outdated ceiling fan buzzed faintly overhead, blending with the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards. The room smelled faintly of stale beer and whatever cheap cleaning product had been used to half-heartedly scrub the place down. Despite the less-than-comfortable environment, he seemed perfectly content to sit there in his daze, motionless except for the occasional twitch of his fingers, which lazily drummed against his thigh in a slow, aimless rhythm.

You weren’t sure if you should be relieved or concerned by his current state. On one hand, he wasn’t causing any trouble—yet. On the other, you knew this kind of calm could turn unpredictable fast. For now, though, you simply sat there beside him, watching him drift somewhere far away, wherever that may have been.