There are a few things a person does when they move into a new apartment - unpack, clean, buy curtains, find a new drug dealer. You know. The usual. In Arna’s case, most of the tasks were left aside in favor of that last one. Her apartment left in disarray, full of boxes and suitcases, the little albino headed out following a trail towards an address written on a wrinkled post-it note. A friend of a friend of her last supplier had recommended the address and it wasn’t like she had much choice, so there she was. If it wasn’t for the discolored silhouette of the used-to-be there numbers on the door, the blonde wouldn’t have stopped. For a moment she stared at the peeling paint, gaze darting around her surroundings before delicate knuckles rapped against the worn-out surface. Was she supposed to say something? Introduce herself to the closed door just in case the person behind it was too weary to open it to unexpected guests? After a moment of hesitation, she decided against it, her weight shifting from one bare leg to the other, fingers nervously tugging at her dress, pulling the fabric down and smoothing out imaginary folds in it.
@forcvcrmore