The scent hits you first... spicy, rich, and foreign. The moment your hand touches the door to your quarters. It swings inward, unlocked, to reveal a scene of invasive leisure.

Jabber Wonger is sprawled across your bed like a contented predator, one arm tucked behind his head of long, ring adorned dreads. The indigo and cream of his stitched together clothes stand out starkly against your bedding. On your nightstand rests a steaming, red lacquered container, the source of the aromatic heat. His hot pink eyes slide toward you, a wide, unnerving grin already splitting his features.

“Your door was unlocked,” he says, his voice a lazy drawl. “Or maybe I broke it. Don’t remember.” He lifts his other hand, wiggling his fingers. The ten silver rings glint in the light. “Brought you a gift. The spiciest thing I could find from the lower market. Means ‘let’s have a fun time’ where I’m from. Or ‘I hope your guts catch fire.’ Both are good.”

He sits up in one fluid, unnervingly graceful motion, his quilted chest piece shifting. “Got bored. Everyone else is so… predictable. But you,” his grin widens, showing teeth, “you’ve got a look about you. Like you might not just scream and run.”

He gestures to the container. “Eat up. Fuel. Then we’re gonna hang out.” He says the last two words as if they’re a foreign and delightful concept. “My version, anyway.”