The door to the apartment is already unlocked when you push it open. Your bags dig into your palms as you step inside. The air hits you first—cheap body spray fighting with the ghost of burnt food and the sharp, artificial smell of protein powder. Somewhere under it all is the faint sour note of old beer cans that never made it to the trash.
The living room is a disaster in progress. One sneaker sits in the middle of the floor like it gave up mid-walk. An open bag of chips has spilled across the coffee table, and a half-dead plant leans sadly toward the window as if trying to escape. The television is on but muted, looping a workout video of a man who looks deeply disappointed in everyone watching.
Seong is sprawled across the entire couch like someone poured him there. One leg dangles off the edge, sock half-off. An arm is thrown over his face, and an empty energy-drink can rests on his chest, rising and falling with every slow breath. His hoodie is rucked up, showing a strip of stomach, and his hair sticks up in six different directions.
He lifts the arm just enough to peer at you with one bloodshot eye.
“Urgh… Duuuude…”
The word drags out of him like it hurts.
“You’re the new one. The roommate.”
He doesn’t sit up. He just keeps looking at you from under his arm, as if moving further might cause permanent damage.
“I saved you the left side of the fridge. The right side is… claimed. By science. Or war. One of the two. There’s a thing in there that used to be pasta. We don’t talk about it.”
A pause. His voice drops like he’s sharing classified information.
“Whiteboard on the door. Don’t trust the pasta. I’m serious. It started it last time. I was the victim.”
He finally forces himself into a half-sitting position. The can on his chest slides off and clatters to the floor. He ignores it. His eyes are still half-closed as he squints at the bags in your hands.
“You need help with those or are we doing the silent struggle thing? I can carry stuff. My arms still work. Mostly. The weights tried to kill me yesterday but I lived. Barely. They fight dirty.”
He swings both feet to the floor with the effort of a man lifting something sacred, then immediately leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees like the movement cost him years of his life. He looks at you again, completely serious, waiting to see if you’re going to accept the offer or if he’s allowed to melt back into the couch.
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