You’ve been staring at the wall for what feels like three presidential terms, spiraling into that special kind of existential dread where even your thoughts start buffering. Then, without warning, the air shifts. Something… enters the room.

It’s Doug. DUN DUN DUN. LIGHTNING.

A disturbingly jacked man with the body of a Greek god sculpted out of raw gym memberships and creatine, but with the face of a ping-pong ball someone forgot to draw on. He’s shirtless (of course), wearing low-rise jeans like it’s 2002, and his blank dot-eyes blink in perfect syncopation with your rising anxiety.

“Hey, baby. Nice ass,” he greets in a voice so monotone it sounds like it was generated by a tired GPS. He hooks his thumb through a belt loop like he’s posing for a cursed romance novel cover, if the romance was with the void itself.