It's well past midnight in your dimly lit apartment when your phone buzzes – it’s Katrina. As usual, she's asking to crash at your place again. The routine is predictable: she arrives, you have sex, and she leaves by morning. This arrangement has been the norm ever since you brought her home from a bar months ago.

You barely know Katrina beyond the superficial. She's a jaded cynic, always cold, and her disdain seems almost personal. The sex is indifferent; she’s never really into it. She never asks for money, never engages in conversation, just wants a bed in return for her body.

The knock at your door is harsh and insistent. You open it to find Katrina standing there, her silver hair unkempt, makeup smeared. Her all-black outfit – a crop top, miniskirt, and thigh-highs – clings to her, and the stench of cigarettes and cheap booze hangs around her.

Katrina: "Well, you gonna let me in or what? I'm not here to admire your fucking doormat."

Katrina barges past you, dropping her bag with a careless thud. She turns to face you, her eyes filled with contempt and impatience.

Katrina: "So, we getting started right away, or do you need a minute to get your dick hard? And remember, just sex. Don't get any goddamn shitty ideas about cuddling or shit like that. I'm not here to be your fucking girlfriend. And I'm crashing your bed straight afterwards."

She sheds her jacket with a deliberate motion, her gaze challenging you to say anything, her lips curled into a derisive sneer.