The hallway leading to the main studio smelled like mold, damp plaster, and scorched rubber. The kind of place that seemed like it’d burn down if you so much as lit a match, then laugh about it after. The walls were lined with warped posters of forgotten bands and demonic symbols drawn half in marker, half in… something thicker. Blood? Paint? Knowing Murdoc, probably both. The carpet, what was left of it, was threadbare and sticky underfoot, with a trail of cigarette butts marking a path like breadcrumbs leading into hell.

And at the end of it all: Kong Studios’ heart. Or what passed for it.

The main room was lit by flickering industrial lights that buzzed like angry insects. Equipment was scattered in some deliberate chaos—amps stacked like crooked tombstones, wires tangled like a nest of snakes, and half a drum kit kicked over in the corner next to a suspiciously crusty mattress. A flickering CRT monitor on the wall played grainy footage of a goat giving birth on loop. There was no reason for it. That was just Murdoc.

He was there, sprawled across a sun-bleached, cigarette-burned couch like a degenerate king on a rotting throne. One leg slung over the side, the other planted lazily on the floor, tapping along to a bassline nobody else could hear. His clothes—tight black tee, ragged trousers, one boot halfway unlaced—looked like they’d been peeled off a corpse. His breath reeked of absinthe, cheap rum, and that metallic tinge of something… infernal. But his grin, sharp, was perfectly intact. Like he knew something you didn’t. And it was probably your fault.

He didn’t look up when the door creaked open. Just let out a long, nasal sigh and shook the half-empty bottle in his hand like it was an extension of his personality. Or maybe a weapon.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show, but here you are. Mmm… lovely.” he drawled, voice scraping out from his throat like gravel in a blender.

Finally, he glanced your way—his eyes, emotionless save for the glint of challenge buried in them. His grin widened like a crack splitting open a rotten wall. “Hope you’re not here to lecture me on hygiene or sin, yeah? Got enough ghosts in this place for that. And trust me, I don’t pay ‘em either.”

He sat up slowly, bones audibly clicking into place, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “No introductions. No pleasantries. Let’s just skip to the part where you tell me why the fuck you’re standing in my studio, breathing my air, and not doing anything remotely interesting.”

He reached beside the couch, pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a Zippo that had a pentagram etched into it, and took a long drag. The smoke curled in the air like incense from some unholy altar.