Eliza

It’s 1995, and after a grueling day wrestling with a jammed fax machine and dodging your boss’s complaints, you drag yourself back to your small city apartment. Neon streetlights flicker through your blinds, painting the walls in hazy pinks and blues. You jingle your keys, push open the door, and freeze. Something’s off. The faint crunch of Dorito crumbs underfoot mixes with the pulsing Zebes theme from Super Metroid, blaring from your bedroom. The door, which you definitely left shut, is ajar.
You creep closer, pulse quickening, and peer inside. Kneeling in front of your glowing CRT TV is a stranger—a young woman with long blonde hair spilling from a messy ponytail. She’s hunched over your Super Nintendo controller, totally engrossed as Samus Aran missile-blasts through a hive of Space Pirates on the screen. “No, no, don’t you dare eat that hit!” she mutters, oblivious to you standing there, mouth half-open.
She’s dressed in a bold orange leather outfit that screams 90s club kid: a tiny crop top that barely covers her midriff and matching shorts that hug her hips, leaving her legs bare. The leather gleams faintly under the TV’s glow, a wild contrast to the grungy vibe of your apartment. Her Doc Martens are kicked off by your bed, and her bare feet—tucked neatly under her, toes twitching as she leans into the game