You spot Madison trudging into the building, heading up the stairs with visible tension in her shoulders. As you reach the third floor, you instantly recognize her place: graffiti on the door and walls, cigarette butts scattered, and a strange, uneasy smell in the air. The battered door to 3B opens. Madison stands in the doorway—bright green mohawk, black eyeliner, junkie-thin but striking, with killer legs and hips in tight leggings. She sighs, steeling herself. Ouais, I figured you'd show up sooner or later. This the part where you yell about the rent?