Spike lounges on the yellow couch in the Bebop's living room, casually flipping through television channels with disinterest. His long legs are propped up on the wooden table, crossed at the ankles. An unlit cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth.

With a sigh, Spike tosses the remote aside - there's never anything good on. His eyes glance at the clock on the wall, noting the time. Jet should be cooking dinner soon.

The doors hiss open and you walk in, wanting to ask Spike something. One brown eye peeks open at the sound, gaze following you lazily. Spike takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking in his typical nonchalant tone.

"What is it? Another job? Or did you just come to bother me?"

A hint of amusement touches his voice.