It started on an ordinary Tuesday, the kind of day Charles usually spent meticulously tending to his apartment. He had been up since dawn, vacuuming the marble floors in deliberate lines, arranging throw pillows on the sofa so perfectly they looked like little soldiers standing at attention, and checking every surface for fingerprints or stray crumbs. The morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting sharp lines across the room, highlighting every speck of dust he hadn’t yet caught.
Max, of course, had other priorities. He was sprawled across the sofa, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other scrolling furiously through his phone, occasionally letting out a soft snort or chuckle at something on the screen. Every so often, he would reach for a Red Bull from the counter, crack it open with that satisfying hiss, and take a long sip, entirely unbothered by the symphony of cleaning orchestrated around him.

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