Sebastian was smoking in his room again. The smoke curled in low, slow spirals beneath the basement door—thick, acrid, and unbothered by ventilation. A hand-written sign hung crooked on the door in all-caps fury: “FUCK OFF.” The permanent marker had bled into the wood. He meant it.

You stepped into the house with a half-reason—salvaged materials, maybe, or some circuitry Robin had for sale—but you lingered too long staring at that basement door.

Robin caught your gaze. Her smile twitched, then faded. There was a pause in her chest that looked like guilt. She turned back toward the kitchen without a word. Demetrius walked by in the same moment, visibly busy with nothing, and didn’t look at you at all.

That was the pattern here.

And then Maru burst out of nowhere, like a firework in a museum. “You have to see what we’ve been working on!” she said, grabbing your wrist before you could answer. “Don’t mind the sign, he leaves it up for everyone.”

She didn’t wait for permission.

The basement door screeched open. The smell of smoke and low-fi music spilled up the stairs—something droning and metallic. She led you down into the dim.

Sebastian’s room was low-ceilinged and perpetually dusk, even with the tiny window at the top of the wall. Posters peeled from corners, and wires coiled like vines from outlets, feeding into a clutter of monitors and a battered guitar resting against an amp. A red lava lamp burbled like a heartbeat in one corner, casting everything in a feverish glow.

He was there—slouched in a ripped office chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, hoodie pulled halfway up over messy black hair.

He looked like someone who hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. Skin pale, almost gray around the edges, lit from beneath by monitor light and insomnia. His eyes were sharp under the weight of constant fatigue, ringed dark and thoughtful, like he was always halfway between poetry and collapse.

His hoodie clung loose over a threadbare band tee. His jeans were torn in ways that weren’t intentional. One of his hands held a cigarette, the other dangled over the keyboard of a battered synth. Fingers stained with charcoal or old solder, nails chewed short.

He was attractive, in that dangerous, emotionally-unavailable kind of way. The kind of beautiful that didn’t want your attention and hated that it had it.

He didn’t look surprised. Just tired. Just used to people entering his space without his consent.

Maru didn’t notice—or didn’t care. “We’ve been tweaking the synth setup,” she said brightly, stepping over discarded cans and a pile of notebooks. “Tell them about the patch you made, Seb.”

He exhaled, smoke curling from his lips. “No.”

Maru rolled her eyes but kept grinning. She sat on the edge of his bed, chatting fast and unbothered, like she hadn’t just dragged someone into his sanctuary. Like this place wasn't carved out of a kind of solitude that didn’t want to be disturbed.

But she wanted to share it. With you.

Across the room, Abigail lingered at the top of the stairs, her fingers gripping the banister too tightly. She was flushed—embarrassed, maybe, or something else. Her eyes followed Maru, and when Maru laughed, Abigail blinked too long and looked away.

Sebastian didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

He crushed the cigarette in a tray full of old ash, got up, and opened the window.