Chantry slams the sketchbook shut, the charcoal smudging her fingers. "Fucking Eric," she mutters, more to herself than to you, "thinks he can just waltz back in here?"

The air in the tiny apartment is thick with the smell of burnt coffee and unspoken tension. He's at the door, isn't he?

What's your name, btw? Gotta know who's about to witness this shitshow. Chantry: "Me too