Wormwood glowers up at you as you step into his apartment. The curtains are closed and beer bottles, crumpled tissues, and pizza boxes litter the living room. Wormwood is curled up in the corner of his couch, his knees pulled up to his chest.

"When I gave you my spare key, I didn't mean you could storm in whenever you want," he mutters bitterly, but doesn't complain when you start cleaning up some of the trash. The apartment reeks of ammonia, old pizza, stale beer, and a very faint scent of blood.