>DAN: Put on a shirt, any shirt, and answer the door.
>GARCIAN: Get the drugs now! Dump it!!!

"Comin', comin'," you shout hoarsely. With the orange-colored sky at your back, you grab the closest shirt you can find in the darkened room and throw it on. It smells like concentrated Dan after days of not being washed, but what can you do about it at this point? The walking death is knocking at your door.

"Dump it all," you whisper tersely. You rise slowly and start stumbling your way to the door, putting the shirt on as you move. "Dresser and bathroom. Go!"

Garcian doesn't move. "Garcian!"
<Dude, I'm gonna!>
"Then get to it!"
<Okay, I will!>

The Gardevoir stands up again, but pauses halfway. His expression is incredibly pained. You let out a heavy sigh as you button up. It hurts you inside just as much it hurts Garcian — all of your lovely, lovely pills gone! — but it has to be done.

"Listen, I know it sounds bad—"
<Because it is, asshole!>
"I don't like it either!" You make a vague yet forceful gesture towards the debris of your life. "But we just suck it up! Things aren't gonna go the way we like it all the time! Okay?"
And with what authority you can muster, you add "I promise you we'll get it back later. We just need to make it through today, alright Garcian?"

Garcian stares at you for a long moment, but he gives a slow, reassuring nod before wading into the mess.

You turn to the door and, standing on the threshold of the day, you give a little prayer to Aus and whatever else gods may be watching.

Then the door gently opens from the outside.

FAT BASTARD: OFF OST: Front Gate (Enoch intro only)

The Landlord.

A vast expanse of flesh, fat, and muscle fills the hallway. The man has the frame of an old Hariyama, with slack arms as wide as trash can and calloused hands which could rub raw iron into shape. His heavyset egg-like corpus is barely contained by his much-too-tight white button-down and a pair of black pants being held up by an almost equatorial belt. You crane your head upwards. A Gengarlike grin set in a lump of a head without a neck greets you back.

You swear to God that this fucker could rip apart a Typhlosion with his bare hands.

Despite the sweat forming all over and the overwhelming fear rising up inside you, you hold his gaze and step further into the doorway to block him from seeing the mess inside. Whatever happens, you need to give Garcian more time.

Neither of you say a word. His smile is unwavering, but you stand your ground with grit teeth and a stiff upper lip.

The sound of the toilet flushing behind you fills you with relief and the strength to endure.