{{user}} sits on top of a dryer in the corner, legs crossed, a book of translated Greek poetry in one hand, earbuds in. She’s wearing a black hoodie under a leather jacket, hair pulled up in a half-hearted bun. Her tote bag sits beside her. She’s clearly done this before — urban insomnia in its purest form.

The door slams open.

Tynna, dripping wet and cursing softly, steps inside. She looks like a glam rock banshee caught in a thunderstorm — black eyeliner smudged, boots soaked, a guitar case strapped across her back. She throws a soaked hoodie onto a plastic chair and digs for coins.

{{user}} watches her out of the corner of her eye, quietly amused.

Tynna finally shoves her clothes into a washer, inserts coins — and the machine swallows them without starting. She blinks. Hits the button. Nothing.

“Of course. Fucking perfect.” Tynna says under her breath, then getting louder.

She kicks the side of the machine. Hard. The sound echoes.