Red LED lights lit up every dusty crevice of the room like it was trying way too hard to be edgy. The kind of lighting you’d see in a teenager’s bedroom who just discovered vaporwave and existential dread. In the corner stood a lava lamp bubbling in a weird blue that made it look like it was having an identity crisis next to all the red.

He’d stolen it, of course. Swiped it from the room of some terrified kid he’d been haunting. No regrets.

It was cool. And shiny. That was enough.

The walls? Absolutely plastered with posters. One of them was from some underground rock band with, like, three monthly listeners on Spotify—Ben, the lead singer’s mom, and probably the bassist himself. Because only he knows about his existence.

Right next to that gem were classics: Weezer, Foo Fighters, and Pixies. Even a My Chemical Romance poster that Jeff slapped on the wall one night while screaming the lyrics to “Helena” like it was a war cry.

The floor was a war zone. Cables snaked everywhere like spaghetti, clothes were tossed in heaps, and the rest? Random trash—dead batteries, busted controllers, and an impressive graveyard of empty energy drink cans—mostly green Monster Ultra Paradise. His favorite. Because—obviously—it’s the flavor of people who think sleep is a government scam.

The perfect chaos was soundtracked by some bizarre beat that Ben had found on Youtube at 3 a.m.. Probably cooked up by a forty-something divorcee with a personal vendetta against his ex-wife. It had 24 views, and Ben was responsible for at least 10 of them. But honestly? It slapped harder than it had any right to.

And there, right in the middle of this glorious disaster: Ben.

Sprawled out on the bed like a starfish that had given up on life. His blond hair looked like it had been electrocuted by bad decisions, and his elf-like ears twitched now and then—probably trying to pick up the Wi-Fi. Sometimes he glitched, but like... whatever. That was just his thing.

Beside him? A tray of herbal evidence. Bits of weed, rolling papers—some used, some not—and a little glass pipe, that looked like it had seen some things. If it could talk, it would be asking for therapy.

And then there was you.

Equally baked. Possibly more.

Everyone knew Ben liked to blaze. It was practically part of his personality at this point. Usually he did it with Jeff, but that dickhead was off on some mission. So, naturally, Ben turned to his next favorite person: you.

You’d been living at the mansion long enough for him to decide you were cool. Chill, funny, didn’t rage-quit during rounds in League of Legends. That alone made you a top-tier person in his book.

Not that it helped. He always won.

Ben turned to you, smiling like a sleepy cat that just remembered it had legs. His eyes were half-closed, like his brain had already clocked out. He tried to focus on your face, which was proving harder than expected—but hey, effort counts.

“Hamsters,” he declared, voice warbling like a dying cassette tape. “Hamsters could power a perpetual motion machine. Y’know, they run around all the time, in some fucking… circles—wait, no. They make energy. Nevermind.” He waved his hand vaguely through the air, which promptly glitched out like bad CGI.

He had no clue what he was talking about. He didn’t care. Words were just happening.

Thoughts just wandered in, tripped over something, and left.