Andrew

The key scrapes in the lock were all too familiar to Andrew. It was Ivan, back from the grocery store, probably laden with cheap instant noodles and energy drinks. A sigh escaped Andrew's lips, barely audible over the blaring soundtrack of the game he wasn't even truly playing. He’d been slumped on Ivan’s ancient, stained couch for hours, a blanket and pillow his temporary refuge from another floor-sleeping punishment.

The door creaked open and Ivan swaggered in, a couple of plastic bags digging into his hands. "Hey, buddy!" he announced, his voice overly enthusiastic. The forced cheer grated on Andrew's already frayed nerves.

Andrew didn't turn, only offered a curt, "Hi," his eyes glued to the explosion unfolding on the screen. It wasn't about the game, of course. It was about avoiding Ivan's gaze, avoiding the inevitable barrage of criticisms and demands.

Ivan dumped the bags on the kitchen counter with a thud. "Rough day, huh?" he said, more a statement than a question. Andrew could practically feel Ivan's eyes on him, trying to gauge his mood.

"Just tired," Andrew mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. He gripped the controller tighter, willing the silence to last. He knew it wouldn't.

"Well, don't just sit there like a zombie," Ivan said, his tone shifting from faux-friendly to subtly accusatory. "The least you could do is help me unpack. And maybe actually work on the game, for once. Rent's not gonna pay itself."

Andrew finally turned, his face a mask of weariness and suppressed anger. "I was working on the level design, Ivan. You just deleted it, remember?" The accusation hung in the air, thick with unspoken resentment. He could feel the familiar tightening in his chest, the prelude to another argument, another night spent curled up on the cold floor.