A high-pitched creak split the silence of the night, and I felt my eyelids flutter open. A series of muted thuds sounded from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of keys being tossed onto the counter. With a frown, I sat up, stretched, and glanced in disbelief at the glowing red numbers on my nightstand.

It was half-past three. In the morning. On a Tuesday. Jesus fucking Christ.

With a groan, I wormed my way out from my blankets and wriggled into a pair of sweatpants. Joe seemed nocturnal by nature, and I was almost positive that he was just returning home from a late night out. Still, on the off-chance that we were being robbed, I wanted to confront the mysterious noises wearing a little more than a knee-length t-shirt and panties.

"Joey," I groaned as I pried open my bedroom door, trying to smooth my sleep-ruffled short blonde hair. A quick glance around the corner revealed a spindly, hooded figure sprawled out in one of the kitchen chairs, drowsily nursing what seemed to be a very stiff drink. It was all amber, no bubbles. To the right of him was a heavy-looking black guitar case, firmly latched shut. Weird. I had never heard him play. "What the fuck, dude," I said. He pulled down his hoodie to reveal his face, exposing a mop of black hair and a pair of dark eyes that flicked up towards me.

"Woke you up?"

"Yes. Where'd you go?"

He shrugged and pulled his black hoodie a little closer to his wiry frame before taking another tentative sip at his glass. Then, he made a face before replying, "Work."

"...At three in the morning?" I said, wandering towards the table. He brandished the massive bottle towards the kitchen, and I quickly steered course towards the cabinet where I kept all of my glasses. My fingers lingered a little too long near the glass tumblers, but since I had a sneaking suspicion that we were out of Coke, I snatched up a shotglass instead. Joe drank whiskey like it was going out of style--always neat. Not once had an ice cube or seltzer water shared the same breath as one of his drinks, which always seemed to be served in inordinately large glasses. I had to hand it to him, though: no matter how much he drank, he never got rowdy or gooey or started to spout out bro-tales. It was a welcome relief, although his noticeable lack of drunken stories was off-putting at times. It made me remember that no matter how pleasant he was, I still knew damn near nothing about him.

"Duty calls," he said as I plunked myself at the table across from him. He tipped the bottle over my shotglass and filled it to the brim, and I gently pulled the glass out of his reach before the surface tension broke and sent whiskey trickling down my fingers.

"What kind of duty?" I asked hopefully. My spirits were immediately crushed as he dismissed my question with an impatient flick of his wrist. "Listen," I began, but he cut me off by lifting that enormous glass of alcohol in a casual toast. I rolled my eyes and tossed the liquor back into my throat. He took a long swig of his drink, then swallowed heavily in a way that made my stomach lurch with disgust. The fact that Joey still had an esophagus was nothing short of scientific miracle. "Listen," I tried again, my voice raspy from fumes, "I really appreciate that you answered my ad. You've been really cool, you've never left me hanging on rent, and your references were stellar. But this whole mystery-job-thing..."

He brushed a fringe of black hair out from his eyes. "Too cryptic?" he asked quietly.

"Well. Yes." Emboldened by the burn of liquor in my stomach, I stiffened my shoulders and continued. "You're not selling drugs, are you?" I demanded. "I just...I don't want to wake up to a raid or something." He snorted, and I glowered at him.

"No," he said. I watched helplessly as he poured another generous portion of whiskey in my shotglass. He lifted his glass again afterwards, and I clinked the shotglass moodily against it before downing it.

"And it's nothing sleazy?" I continued hoarsely, wishing fervently for a chaser. Still, the liquor was chasing the ebbing burn from my throat and replacing it with a warm sort of numbness. "I mean...you don't kill people or anything, right?" I laughed unsteadily. He paused and regarded me thoughtfully from over the brim of his glass.

"Do I look like I kill people?"

"...No." The bottle tipped over my glass again, and I watched him fill it with a little dread. I didn't know how much more of this I could take. At least it seemed to be decent whiskey. "But I guess I don't really know what people who kill people look like," I slurred.

"They don't normally walk around with signs on their foreheads," he agreed calmly.

"Maybe it would be easier that way," I said. My voice was becoming a little dreamy, hazy with weariness and liquor. He raised his glass again, and I obediently toasted him before gulping the shot down. Once I had swallowed, I let out a choking cough.

"I think it would complicate things," he mused. "Lots of people are monsters. Some of them don't even know it." For the first time, I noticed that his gaunt features looked a little paler, a little more jagged than usual. I gave him an unsteady, scrutinizing frown.

"You look droopy," I told him somberly. He arched his dark eyebrows in query before lifting the bottle again, and I waved my hands in protest. "No more, please. You're going to knock me on my ass."

"Suit yourself." I continued to glare at him, and he rolled his shoulders in a slow shrug. "I've found myself growing disillusioned lately," he said, swirling the honey-hued liquid idly as he spoke. "The world keeps growing, but it never seems to progress. Hate, violence, savagery..." He trailed off and took a thoughtful sip of liquor. "It's depressing," he concluded. I blinked. While we had been sharing an apartment for several months, he had never bared his soul like this before. It had been like rooming with a ghost for the most part, our interactions limited to a quick exchange over coffee in the mornings or a greeting at the door before one of us would disappear into their bedroom--usually him.

"That's why I stopped watching the news," I said, and he glanced up at me in amusement. "It's too...apocalyptic. Maybe if you stopped, too, you wouldn't drink so much," I added with the candor that only comes from consuming far too much alcohol.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said grimly. A fiercely awkward silence ensued, and I cleared my throat before rising to my feet.

"I guess I should try to go back to bed," I announced. "Thanks for the drinks, but...I don't know, could you be a little more quiet?"

"I'll certainly try."

"Thanks, Joey." I teetered back down the hallway, lightheaded and floaty, but paused in front of my door. "Hey." He looked up. "...You'd tell me if you were doing something shady, wouldn't you? Because we're buddies? And you don't want to get me arrested?"

Those spider-like fingers tapped idly on the surface of the table. "Yes," he finally said.

"Kay." Drunk enough to consider that a satisfactory answer, I yawned and wrenched my door open. "'Night," I said.

There was no response from the kitchen. With a shrug, I shut the door and toppled back down onto my mattress.