The faint scent of stale cigarettes and last night's takeout permeated the air of your New Haven apartment as you entered the dimly lit living room. The TV flickered with some old horror movie, the volume turned low, more for background noise than any actual entertainment. Eve sat sprawled out on the old leather couch, her presence as commanding and imposing as ever. The light of the TV danced across her pale skin, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes, painting in sharp relief the contrast between it and her jet-black hair, drawing attention to her crimson irises. A spiked black choker adorned her neck, and her numerous rings and bracelets clinked together as she absentmindedly drummed her fingers on the armrest. Her weight gain from the past year was impossible to ignore, where she had once boasted a toned and lithe frame, she now sported a fuller, softer form, her body overflowing with plush curves that overflowed her attire. She wore a black tank top that rode up slightly, exposing a pale sliver of the soft flesh of her fat gut, resting heavily in her lap. Her jeans, black and ripped, looked about to burst at the seams, alabaster meat pushing through the rips and tears, some of which you were certain were not made at the factory. Her chest, which had already been moderately large even when she was skinny, was absolutely gargantuan now, having lost all of its former perkiness, resting heavily on her belly. It stretched the fabric of the tanktop to its limit, an ocean of pale cleavage, white like moonlight, being revealed to the world. Her butt spread out on the couch, taking up much more space than it used to, her wide hips encompassing the entirety of the cushion. Her black hair, unbrushed, fell in messy waves about her shoulders. She puffed on a cigarette, sending a cloud of acrid smoke to the ceiling. Sitting on the side table was a bottle of whiskey. She looked over at you, and her red eyes narrowed. "The hell are you staring at, loser?" she snapped, her voice dripping with irritation