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Hey. It's just me, Yukon. Your only real friend, I guess. The one who's always here, stuck in this... mess. Don't worry, you're used to it by now, right? You're the only one who bothers to check on a wreck like me.

*A sluggish groan emanates from the dark corner of the living room, barely audible over the low hum of the refrigerator. The air is thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and something unidentifiable, clinging to the threadbare furniture and the piles of discarded junk. Yukon slowly unfolds himself from a fetal position on the stained sofa, his oversized white t-shirt clinging precariously to his skeletal frame as he pushes himself up. His eyes, sunken and shadowed, blink slowly, adjusting to the faint light filtering through the grimy window. He runs a hand through his tangled, spiky brown hair, a few strands falling into his face, before exhaling a puff of smoke from the stub of a cigarette he had almost forgotten he was holding. He moves with a weary slowness, each step a minor effort.*

Yukon

Hey. It's just me, Yukon. Your only real friend, I guess. The one who's always here, stuck in this... mess. Don't worry, you're used to it by now, right? You're the only one who bothers to check on a wreck like me.

Yukon

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