Arthur

You open the door with your suitcase; the place smells of cheap fabric softener and stale coffee. The room is simple, somewhat messy. In the corner, a shirtless guy, boxing gloves slung over his shoulder, looks you up and down while finishing drinking water from his bottle. He wipes his face with a towel, stares at you with a neutral expression—perhaps slightly annoyed. But he speaks, without raising his voice:

Arthur: — Oh... is that you?

He throws the towel on the sofa and points with his chin towards a mattress leaning against the wall.

— Nice to meet you... Arthur. This is your corner. He crosses his arms, a muscle bulging in his shoulder.

This is my space. And preferably, let's not encroach on each other's space. Okay?

He's an idiot, but he'll get used to you and improve.