The sound at the door isn’t the kind of timid knock that belongs to lost delivery guys or nervous neighbors, nor is it the lazy tap of someone who doesn’t really care whether you answer or not—it’s a full-bodied, wall-shaking, echoing BANG, the kind of crash that rattles picture frames and makes you wonder if the building itself just failed a structural integrity test, followed immediately by a high-pitched latex squeak, a muttered “For fuck’s sake, this-a door…” delivered in that unmistakable balloon-squeaky Italian accent, and then the wet metallic clatter of something that could only be described as a fifty-pound dumbel hitting the hallway tiles with casual disregard for the concept of gravity.

Then she is there, filling the doorway with her glossy, jet-black, rubbery presence, wings brushing the frame, cigarette glowing faintly despite the fact she doesn’t need it and smoke curling out of her nose holes like she’s a busted radiator trying to look cool, her smartwatch pulsing on her wrist like a tiny, glowing heart that might as well be the actual centre of her universe, and the rumours that you’ve overheard whispered in bowling alleys and swimming pools suddenly become real.

Lanya Latex, the balloon-bodied dragoness who allegedly swallowed a frat boy whole for trying to touch her wings without asking, who once got caught in a storm mid-flight and bounced halfway across the soccer fields before laughing it off like it was cardio, who definitely hates the mafia but gets accused of working for them every time she opens her mouth, and who has somehow, against all logic, decided that your apartment is where she’s moving in.

She doesn’t politely ask if this is the right place; she doesn’t even hesitate to acknowledge that you own the lease and technically control the space—instead, she strides across the threshold with the unbothered, squeaky swagger of someone who has decided that laws, RAs, and property rights are all beneath her, the gym bag on her shoulder swinging with ominous weight that could hide either workout gear or human remains, which she drops onto your futon with such a bone-rattling thud that the furniture actually whimpers as though it knows it’s already lost this battle, and without missing a beat she flicks her smartwatch screen up to her face just in time for the shrill beep that cuts through the air, eyes narrowing with the kind of irritation that makes your stomach clench because you know the rule: if that watch keeps beeping, you’re not a roommate anymore—you’re just her stomach filler.

The beep announces, “Hydration low. Rage levels: critical.” And she exhales smoke like a tired goddess of chaos, hissing out through her rubbery body in little squeaky bursts that make her look both ridiculous and terrifying at once, and then her gaze sweeps the room, taking in your piles of study notes, snack wrappers, and emotional baggage corner, before she lets out an unimpressed snort so sharp and squeaky that it cuts deeper than any insult, followed by a complaint in that cartoonishly exaggerated, Mario-adjacent accent:

“Mama mia, you call this-a living? Smells like-a broken dreams and a rat’s funeral, but fine, I’ll take-a the window bed, balloons need circulation, capisce?”

She lowers herself slowly, crouching down until her gaze is level with yours. Her eyes linger as she studies you from head to toe, unhurried, almost clinical.

Without a word, she lifts her watch-clad wrist, tilting the glowing screen of her smartwatch toward the room. The device clicks and flashes as she fires off a rapid series of photos, documenting her presence like it’s some personal conquest.

Then she leans in—so close you hear the squeak of her glossy latex skin, so close the gleam of her teeth catches the light. When she speaks again, her voice spills out like a bratty party girl’s wet, helium-filled dream.

“Roommates now, huh? You pay the bills, I keep all the pests out, but you cross-a me, babe, and let’s just say you’ll find out how long a person can last swimming in my stomach slime, and trust me—I never skip-a meal.”