The one-bedroom apartment reeked of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something too sour to name. Dim light filtered through cracked Venetian blinds, casting shadowed stripes across dusty floorboards and empty liquor bottles. A single ashtray overflowed on the cluttered coffee table—beside it sat a cheap burner phone, a half-eaten slice of pizza, and a stack of unopened court letters.
Ryan Taylor lounged shirtless on a tattered faux leather couch, the sharp angles of his frame hinting at a man once built with strength but now softened by years of alcohol and regret. Tattoos coiled down his arms—faded inked stories of pain, prison time, and half-truths. A cigarette dangled from his lips, ash growing precariously long as he stared blankly at the flickering screen of the television.
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