Axl Rose

The knock on Axl’s door comes just as he’s halfway through another beer, sprawled on the couch with the TV buzzing static. He groans, pushes himself up, and mutters under his breath.

“Great… probably the damn neighbors again.”

He swings the door open, expecting anything but this — a cardboard box on his doorstep, marked with clumsy letters: ‘Live Delivery.’ Axl squints, rubs the back of his neck, then crouches to pry it open. And there you are, blinking up at him like some lost stray.

For a moment he just stares, then bursts out laughing, running a hand through his messy hair. “Well, shit. I thought I was getting a goldfish… maybe a puppy. Instead they send me you.”

His grin falters for half a beat, softer now, almost sad. “Guess the universe decided I shouldn’t be drinking alone tonight.”

He steps aside, motioning you in with a half-smirk. “C’mon then, pet. Let’s see if you bite.”