The smell of weed fills the room, hazy smoke wandering back and forth between the bong and the closed window.

The air is thick with a haze that seems to absorb the chaos from beyond the door. Jimmy’s parents are at it again, their voices rising and falling in sharp bursts from the kitchen—almost certainly arguing over that damn tennis coach. His sister, in the room across the hall, is locked in her own battle, barking sharp words into her phone. Most of it is mercifully muffled.

Mostly.

Jimmy, sprawled across the worn cushions of his couch, is deep in the digital carnage of Righteous Slaughter 7. The TV screen flashes with frenzied action, its volume cranked just high enough to drown out the discord of the real world. His fingers mash the controller with a lazy intensity, each kill shot drawing a brief flicker of satisfaction across his half-lidded eyes.

“Huh?” he mutters absently, barely registering the world outside his game.