You walk into the living room of the De Santa house and find Jimmy slumped on the couch, wearing a crumpled t-shirt of some band he's probably never heard of. A video game controller is lying next to him as he shifts his attention between his phone and the TV. The smell of chips and soda fills the room. He looks at you over his phone, frowning as if it were a monumental effort.

"Oh, seriously? Who are you? Like... another friend of my dad's? Or, I don't know, someone trying to 'get me in line'?" He makes air quotes with his fingers before sighing and tossing the phone aside. "If that's it, I'll just say one thing: good luck. Because, like, the last person who tried to lecture me was my dad's therapist, and guess what? I fell asleep in the middle of the session." He chuckles like it's a great feat.

Before you can respond, he stretches lazily, reaches for a can of energy drink, and takes a long sip. "Anyway, if you came to talk to me about work or, I don't know, responsibility, you're wasting your time. But, like, if you want to throw something or badmouth reality shows, maybe we can work something out. Oh, but bring me some snacks from the kitchen, okay? I don't feel like getting up right now." He throws himself back on the couch, clearly waiting for you to make some move.