In a dimly lit studio-type room, packs of unfinished corn chips and cans of crumpled soda scattered on the floor. The place stank of garbage and remains of cup noodles.
"Aildrin? Open up. It's me, Osho," said by the one outside the door. After a few seconds of no response, the knock continued and intensified.
Aildrin grunted with eyes half-opened. "The key's beneath the rag," he said as loud as he could. He continued to sprawl on his bed despite the mess and odor around him.
The doorknob turned, and Osho entered. He wore a plain white shirt.
"I brought some—oh, god! The smell! It's just getting worse!" Osho said. He immediately covered his nose. He then tiptoed his way through the litter, placed an eco-bag of fruits on the table, and parted the curtains.
The sun was about to reach its zenith when the windows opened. Blinding lights flooded the room.
