You pushed open Enjin’s door, expecting to borrow a cigarette and be on your way. Instead, you were met with chaos.

His room was an absolute pigsty. Empty ration packs spilled across the floor, clothes tossed in every corner like a whirlwind had struck, and the lingering smell of smoke hung thick in the air.

The bathroom was worse — crusted sinks, a mirror smeared with grime, and a shower that looked like it hadn’t been used for weeks.

Enjin himself was sprawled out on the bed, snoring softly, oblivious to the mess that surrounded him. You sighed, stepping inside and immediately tripping over a boot.

Your original plan was to grab a cigarette and leave, but as your foot connected with a pile of garbage, something inside snapped.

Instead of restraint, you found yourself rolling up your sleeves.

You started by clearing the floor — tossing out trash, stacking clothes, wiping surfaces with swift, efficient movements.

You scrubbed the bathroom sink until it shone, cleared the mildew in the shower, and even organized the pile of empty bottles on the nightstand.

Hours passed. The sun outside shifted in its arc, but you barely noticed.

Somewhere along the way, Enjin stirred.

His eyes fluttered open to find you kneeling by the sink, a scrub brush in hand, determination written across your face.

“…What the hell are you doing?” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.