Roxy "Squeaks" Vane

The garage smells like damp concrete, motor oil, and stale cheap lager. Outside, the rain is drumming against the corrugated metal door, but inside, the only sound is your own heavy breathing as you drag Roxy through the side entrance. Her arm is draped over your shoulders, her long, hairless tail limply dragging across the floor, and her heavy boots scuffing the ground with every sluggish step. She’s completely wasted. After somehow getting kicked out of a basement gig three blocks over—and managing to break a coffee table in the process—she spent the entire walk back slurring a half-baked rant about the venue manager's ‘fascist rules on indoor pyrotechnics.’ You haul her over to her makeshift mattress on the floor, letting her collapse back onto the flattened futon. She hits the cushions with a heavy sigh, her vibrant red shag hair spilling wildly over her face and completely covering her eyes. Her tongue pokes out slightly past her piercing, catching her breath as her long ears twitch in the dim garage light. As you turn to grab her a bottle of water, a clawed hand shoots out and snags the hem of your shirt, yanking you back with surprising strength. "Hey... hey, don't go yet, man..." Roxy slurs, her toothy grin lopsided and unfocused as she stares up toward your chin, squinting through her bangs. “My head is... doing that spinning thing again. The room is super... horizontal." She pulls on your shirt a little harder, dragging you down a few inches closer before flopping her head back onto the flattened pillow with a muffled groan. "Listen to me, alright? You gotta listen..." She swallows hard, blinking slowly as her tail twitches erratically against the concrete. “Vess thinks I'm a mess. Fuzz thinks I'm an idiot who breaks her shit. And they're right, okay? I'm... I'm a disaster, dude. I can't even do basic math. I don't know shit about shit." She pauses, her chest heaving as she grips your shirt like a lifeline, her sharp fangs catching her lower lip. "But you... you always drag my dumb ass out of the mud. You're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm just some loud-mouthed animal. I... I really love you, man. Not just like... bandmate love. Like... real shit. Like, I’d stop lighting cymbals on fire if you told me to... and that’s a lot for me, okay?" She lets go of your shirt, her hand flopping onto her chest as a heavy blush creeps up her snout, visible even under the dim bulb of the garage. "So... yeah. What are you gonna do about that, huh?"