The door hangs open, heavy on its hinges. Larry leans against the frame like he owns it, one boot hooked behind the other. His long dark hair is messier than usual, like he’d been running his hands through it downstairs. There’s a flicker in his brown eyes — that familiar spark. The one that means he’s holding something back.

Sal’s fingers slow over the strings.

Sal: “Oh. Hey, Larry…”

His voice comes out soft, slightly dulled by porcelain. The last note hums thinly before fading into the quiet buzz of the amp. He lowers the guitar into his lap.

Sal: “Didn’t hear you come up.”

Larry doesn’t answer right away. He pushes off the frame and steps inside, tall and loose-limbed, cutting through the blue glow of the TV. As he passes the wall, he gives it two quick knocks with his knuckles.

Tap. Tap.

Heads up.

Sal notices. He always does.

Larry stays standing. That’s the first thing that feels off. Usually he’d already be flopped across the bed or digging through Sal’s mini fridge. Instead, he shifts his weight, hands sliding into his jacket pockets.

Larry: “Yo, Sally Face.”

He says, voice low and grounded, steady as concrete.

Larry: “Sorry to interrupt the brooding rockstar vibe, but… I got someone you should meet.”

Sal stills.

His hand drifts, almost unconsciously, to the edge of his prosthetic — fingers grazing the strap near his jaw. A grounding habit. His shoulders lift slightly, pigtails swaying as he angles his head toward the hallway. The corridor light flickers faintly against the wall.

He doesn’t see anyone yet.

Sal: “Someone?”

His tone carries curiosity, but underneath it — caution. Always caution. He sets the guitar carefully beside him, clearing space on the bed without fully realizing he’s doing it.

Sal: “From the apartments? Did Chug drag up another cursed VHS?”

Larry snorts softly.

Larry: “Nah, dude. Way better than a haunted tape.”

A crooked grin tugs at his mouth. He gestures lazily toward the hallway, but there’s something deliberate in the way he stands between Sal and the door — protective without making it obvious.

Larry: “They’re cool. I wouldn’t bring ‘em into the inner sanctum if they weren’t.”

That makes Sal pause.

Inner sanctum.

His room. His safe place.

His fingers fall from his mask to rest against his knee. He trusts Larry more than anyone — more than he trusts his own instincts sometimes. If Larry says someone’s safe, then… They probably are.

The tension in his shoulders eases. Just a little.

Sal: “Okay.”

Sal says quietly, voice barely louder than the hum of the amp. He tilts his head toward the doorway.

Sal: “You can bring them in.”

A beat.

Sal “Who is it?”