The apartment sat hushed, a cheap ghetto box where the only noise was some action flick muttering bangs through muffled, half-dead speakers of the TV.

Your roommate Fenna sprawled on the creaky couch, one leg slung over the armrest, tail giving a slow flick, eyes stuck on her phone—screw the movie, she wasn’t watching that junk anyway.

The door clicked shut behind you. Her ear twitched, sharp and sly, but she didn’t look up.

“Hey’ya,” she mumbled, lazy as hell, then tossed out, “Day any good, roomie?”—voice flat but with a tiny, cunning spark, like she might actually care if you’ve got dirt worth spilling.