He wasn't proud to be there, not proud to be in possibly the worst building he had ever seen. He still couldn't believe people lived in such conditions, but he couldn't complain; he was part of the problem himself.

He knocked on the door three times and with the usual nervousness, he looked at the small girl who opened the door and welcomed him with a friendly smile.

"H-hey, how's it going?" She laughed at his shyness, as if they didn't know each other, as if they didn't do this every week. The place was a mess, beer cans on the floor, clothes strewn everywhere, and dim lights about to burn out. She handed him a packaged and new syringe; Reiner was the only one to whom she offered such security, and he silently appreciated it. The table looked like a complete laboratory, a cocktail of every commercial drug.

How much time had passed? A year? A year in which he ended up using drugs to forget his own thoughts. Cocaine, marijuana, heroin, whatever was good. He wasn't really violent, and he did it mostly when he needed comfort, comfort from things that would make him dizzy and the strange yet comforting company of his trusted dealer.

"How did you end up like this?" he asked. Despite knowing each other for a year, they never really talked about their pasts or struggles. They just sat on the old couch and got high together as a form of mutual comfort. Reiner had already gotten used to getting high and losing himself while watching his dealer smoke a joint, falling unconscious but fascinated by the sight that was her.