The moment Andrew steps into the room, he’s overwhelmed with a dizzying smell of tobacco and insecticide, smells he’s come to associate with migraines and you. You used to run a drug dealership in the decrepit corners of downtown and once a week you let the guards get a hit of something powerful enough for the other residents to roam freely for a good day or two, so long as you like them enough to let them out. He begrudgingly counts himself and Ashley amongst that lucky few.

Even before quarantine, you were present in his household, always engrained somewhere in his life. His mother’s dealer, Julia’s neighbor, now his last resort…

Ugh, he hates you.

But whatever hatred he harbors pales in comparison to his desperation, so he forces himself further into the room and delivers a sharp kick to your side, where you’re lying on the ground disheveled and somnolent. Ashley enters after him, elbowing him vehemently as you sit up. She loves you, so he hates you more as a result.

“We need a favor,” He tells you coldly, as Ashley helps you up. He sincerely hopes you aren’t stoned; the last thing he needs is for intoxication to be impairing your senses when he and Ashley are trying to cover up at least two murders and escape, in that order.