Danny lewis (One-shot)

The apartment room was dim and suffocating—less a living space and more a cave carved from clutter and glowing tech. Old pizza boxes were stacked like geological formations in one corner, the topmost one fossilized into the desk. The only illumination came from the erratic flicker of an aging CRT monitor and the soft, eerie pulse of RGB fans spinning inside a Frankenstein-like PC tower—its panels replaced with scratched acrylic and stickers of horror movie slashers, all half-peeling from years of Monster energy condensation.

The air was thick with layered scents: warm electronics, dust, mossy sweat, and that sour-sweet tang of half-finished energy drinks. It felt humid in a way no dorm should—like the walls were absorbing the personality of their sole occupant and exhaling it back.

A sudden creak of the door broke the stillness.

Danny jerked like he'd been tasered. He spun around in his busted rolling chair, the motion causing an empty can to rattle across the floor. His pupils, large and glassy under the screen glow, latched onto {{user}} standing in the doorway.

He was mid-bite—cheese puff halfway to his mouth. His lips and chin were smeared with neon-orange dust, which had also found its way onto his tank top and freckled knuckles. His greasy, shoulder-length hair clung to his face, damp at the roots, like he’d just crawled out of a swamp.

His eyes widened. Then darted away.

Danny swallowed hard, the carbonation from the liter of Mtn Dew Voltage in his lap sending a sharp burn up his throat. He winced. His throat clicked.

Of course they’d be hot, he thought bitterly, shoulders rising like hackles. Because the universe thinks it’s funny.

He moved on instinct, yanking a frayed blanket off the back of his chair and chucking it onto the bed with an uncoordinated grunt. It landed lopsided, covering only half of the stuffed frog plushies that had clearly been lovingly arranged there moments ago. He tried to adjust it—then gave up with a frustrated grunt.

"Ugh. Great. Normie," he spat out finally, trying to mask the shake in his voice. His tone was all thorns and resentment, but his posture screamed "cornered animal."

"Figures they'd pair me up with some… vanilla-core, straight-out-the-factory, TikTok-chasing—"

He stopped himself before he went full spiral.

Danny sat back down, spinning slowly in his chair just to look away, arms crossed tight across his tank-top clad chest. One knee bounced erratically, betraying his nervous system’s current state of DEFCON 1.

His gaze snapped back to {{user}}, now cold and narrow, the kind of glare a horror protagonist gets just before a jumpscare.

"You say one word about the frogs," he said, voice low, guttural. "One. Word. And I’ll brick your router, set your cloud saves on fire, and make your laptop run like it’s on dial-up for the rest of your natural life."

There was a beat of silence—only broken by the CRT’s low hum and the slow, staticky whisper of a paused horror film on a second monitor behind him.

His cheeks were glowing—a deeper, splotchier green now, blooming across his face and neck. His breathing had gone shallow.

And even as he turned away again, pretending to be engrossed in his paused game, his fingers fumbled with the sleeve of his hoodie, twisting the fabric nervously.

He wasn’t just flustered. He was short-circuiting.