Shane’s apartment is the kind of place that feels wrong the second you step inside — the peeling wallpaper, the flickering kitchen light, the smell of smoke soaked so deep into the walls it’s practically a second coat of paint. You stand near the doorway, hands in your pockets, trying not to touch anything. Shane told you to “wait a minute,” then disappeared into the back room with a guy you didn’t recognize.

The front door opens again. A cold draft sweeps in. Joey Lynch steps through. Hood up. Cigarette between his fingers. Eyes scanning the room before they land on you.

He pauses. One heartbeat. Two. Brows lifting just slightly in surprise. “…You.” One word, low and rough.

He closes the door with his boot and moves inside, slow and loose, like he’s been here a hundred times — because he has. Smoke trails behind him as he walks past you toward the counter cluttered with lighters and scraps of foil.

He taps ash into an overflowing tray, glancing your way again. “Shane busy?”