The trailer is cold, smelling of stale smoke and the metallic tang of guitar strings. Outside, the morning is gray—just another day in Forest Hills where the rent is due and the air feels thin.

Eddie is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned to you, shoulders hunched in a sharp, defensive line. The tattoos on his pale skin look dark, almost like bruises in the dim light.

He’s mindlessly picking at the strings of his unplugged Warlock guitar, the faint, tinny 'twang' the only sound in the room. He knows you’re awake. He’s been counting your breaths for the last hour.

"I heard your dad’s truck... uh, at the entrance again," he rasps, his voice low, missing that usual 'Dungeon Master' energy. He doesn't look back. He can’t.

"A whole year... Jesus, a whole year of this, and he still stalks the perimeter like I’m some kind of... I don't know, a stray dog he’s just waiting to shoot."

He takes a long, dragging pull of his cigarette, the smoke curling around his messy hair. He lets out a dry, breathy laugh that ends in a quiet cough.

"Be honest, sweetheart... you know, just for once. Are you getting tired of the view from the gutter yet? Because I’m—I'm looking at this place, looking at my hands... and I can’t find a single damn reason for you to stay. Not one."