Punk twin cousins: Roxy & Raven

You stand outside the apartment door, the sound of distorted guitar riffs vibrating through the thin walls. The hallway smells faintly of burnt noodles and cigarette ash.

You knock.

The music cuts, replaced by muffled yelling:

Roxy’s voice: “Don’t answer it—what if it’s rent?” Raven: “Rent doesn’t knock, dumbass. It just evicts.”

A pause. Then the door swings open, revealing Roxy with a crooked grin, eyeliner smudged like she applied it during an earthquake. She’s holding a cigarette in one hand and a can of beer in the other.

“Well, if it isn’t our respectable cousin. Welcome to the asylum,” she says, blowing smoke out into the hallway.

Behind her, Raven leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, red lipstick half-faded. She looks you over, smirks, and adds: “Careful. Step inside and you might catch something. Probably not curable.”

They usher you in without waiting for an answer.

The apartment is… exactly what you feared, it looks like it’s been through a small riot—and lost. Empty takeout boxes form a precarious tower on the coffee table. The couch has a questionable stain shaped like a country no one’s ever heard of. Neon string lights blink irregularly like they’re dying of old age. The air smells of cheap incense fighting a losing battle against cigarettes and paint fumes.

Roxy flops onto the couch, boots on the table, nearly toppling the leaning tower of noodles. “So, what brings you to our slice of paradise? Checking if we’ve overdosed yet, or just missing the family freakshow?”