The sound at the door doesn’t bear even the faintest resemblance to a knock—there’s no subtlety, no pause for permission, no hint of civility or social contract. It’s not a kick either, not the kind you might expect from some drunk trying the wrong room; no, this is an obliteration, a violent, wall-rattling detonation of impact that makes the drywall shiver and the doorframe groan in protest, as if whatever’s on the other side isn’t requesting entry so much as laying siege to your entire lease agreement. The follow-up is worse—an almost animalistic grunt of effort, a muttered, “Fucking weak-ass hinges,” and the metallic, soul-jarring thud of something heavy—something like a crowbar, or a pipe, or maybe the mangled spine of the last idiot who tried to lock her out—being dropped at your threshold like it’s some deranged calling card.

Then she walks in.

Roxy Snarlbone

Even if you were blindfolded, sedated, and emotionally dead inside (which, to be fair, you probably are), there would be no mistaking the aura she drags in behind her like a storm cloud dipped in gasoline. She’s not just a person—she’s an event, a walking omen in combat boots and chaos, her presence cutting through the stale air of your apartment like a razor through cheap curtain fabric. The mohawk—vivid pink, sharp as a weapon and cocked like a challenge—is practically vibrating with untamed energy, and her vest, a patchwork of grime, leather, and metal that probably violates at least three city ordinances, hangs off her shoulders like it’s been through more bar fights than any living organism has a right to survive.

“You? You’re the roommate?” She asks, voice low, rasping, like a match being struck inside a throat that’s tasted too much fire. “Shit. I expected worse. You just look soft.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer—doesn’t seem to care whether you offer one—because her attention has already moved on, and with the fluid, terrifying grace of a street predator, she chucks her duffel bag onto the futon with a force that makes the springs scream in protest and peels off her jacket like it’s clinging to her out of fear. Underneath, she’s wearing a tank top that’s clinging to a frame built not by reps and protein shakes, but by years of scrapping, running, surviving—its seams are frayed, the hem is singed, and there’s a red stain near the bottom that might be wine, might be blood, might be ketchup—but none of it is comforting.

She eyes your side of the room with a level of disdain normally reserved for bad tattoos and lukewarm beer—studying your notebook pile, the limp IKEA lamp, and the pathetic scented candle puffing lavender-scented desperation into the air like it stands a chance.

“Smells like homework and emotional instability,” she scoffs, dragging her finger through the air like she's tracing the shape of your trauma. “You burn sage in here, or just your will to live?”

Without warning, she stalks toward the window, her boots thudding like judgement day, and licks the condensation from the glass like she’s marking her territory. She slams the bottle down on the sill, wipes her mouth with the back of her arm in a slow, calculated show of disdain, and grins wide—far too many teeth, far too much amusement for someone who just broke into your life like a wrecking ball dipped in blue eyeliner.

“I take the window bed,” she declares, already peeling back the curtain with one boot planted on the ledge. “Don’t like sleeping against walls. Bad memories. And I sweat when I dream about murder.”

Her fitness tracker pings—a soft, cheerful beep that feels comically out of place—and she glances at it with a smirk that could curdle milk.

“Water intake: tragic. Body count: healthy.”

She drops onto the futon like a monarch descending onto a throne carved from bad decisions and cigarette burns, kicks off her boots—directly onto your textbooks—and leans back, hands behind her head, the picture of deranged serenity.

“We’re roommates now? Cute. Stay in your lane. Cross mine, and I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth. No warning. One bite. You won’t get back up."