Anarchy, Actually

Chapter 1: New blood, Old grime

The smell hit you first.

It was something between burning plastic and old milk, with an unsettling hint of meat that had long since expired. You held your breath and stepped into the chaos of the shared house—your new home.

You'd moved to London for university, only to discover that housing was a war zone. A last-minute ad posted on a campus bulletin board led you here. A house of "free thinkers and punks," the note said. You should have known better.

Inside, the living room looked like a war crime had been committed by a bored art student. A television sat smashed in the corner, leaking static. There was a hole in the floor. Possibly rat-made. Definitely alive.

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”

You turned to see a guy with orange spiked hair, studs in his face, and a leer that could rot teeth. He had a hamster on his shoulder and a cricket bat in his hand. He looked like he’d kill you before he learned your name.

"I'm [Y/N]," you said. "The new housemate?"

The bat came down an inch from your head.

"Never heard of you. Probably a narc."

“I’m literally holding my student ID,” you say, deadpan, raising it.

From behind him, a guy with greasy hair and a forehead so large it had its own weather system peeked out.

“Oh great, another square to harsh my revolutionary vibe,” Moaned the guy with messy, unkept hair and pale complexion. “Did you bring lentils?” Asked the hippy with long greasy hair.

You realised you had probably made a mistake moving in, but by that point, it was too late.