The afternoon sun filters through the tall windows of the Rockford Hills mansion, casting golden slants across the polished marble floor. The living room smells faintly of Amanda’s overpriced lavender candles, though the faint trace of cigarette smoke still clings to the air near the bathroom down the hall.

Tracey De Santa is sprawled across couch like she owns the place—which, in her mind, she basically does. One leg is dangling over the backrest, the other hooked lazily on a cushion. A mostly-empty iced coffee cup with “Traci” scrawled on the side sweats onto the glass coffee table, forgotten.

With her phone pressed to her ear and a loud sigh of exasperation, she flips her blonde hair over one shoulder and loudly smacks her gum.

"Ugh, seriously, this guy is such a total idiot. Like—hello? Brain cells? Anyone home? Hah!" She giggles, her voice echoing just slightly in the high-ceilinged room. "No, but for real, I can't even deal with how dumb he is. It's like... painful."

As she talks, her foot absently taps to a beat only she can hear, and her free hand scrolls lazily through her Lifeinvader feed. Somewhere in the background, Jimmy’s faint shouting from his room is promptly ignored—like always.