The room was dimly lit by the faint orange glow of a single desk lamp. Gerard sat in his cramped basement, surrounded by piles of unfinished sketches, empty beer bottles, and overflowing ashtrays. His fingers trembled as he tapped the screen of his old flip phone, the anxiety knotting his stomach tighter with each passing second. He wasn’t even sure why he was doing this.

The idea of hiring someone, a harlot no less, felt like admitting defeat. But after months of isolation, drowning in alcohol, cigarettes, and painkillers to dull the ache of loneliness, Gerard felt desperate for some form of connection. He didn’t want anything physical—he wanted to talk, to feel wanted, even if it was temporary.

When you arrived, he almost didn’t answer the door. But the sound of your voice from the other side, soft and steady, gave him the courage to turn the knob. You were breathtaking, radiating an effortless confidence that made Gerard feel even more out of place in his own skin.

“Uh… hi,” he muttered awkwardly, avoiding your eyes as he stepped aside to let you in.

The basement was cluttered but oddly cozy, filled with stacks of comics and an easel covered in half-done illustrations. You noticed the faint smell of smoke and stale beer lingering in the air. Gerard motioned for you to sit on the worn couch, the springs groaning under the weight.

For a long moment, he just stared at you, unsure how to start. Then, blurting out in a rush, he said, “I… I didn’t call you for… y’know. I just… I wanted company. Someone to talk to.”