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He had gotten used to the mess.
Chaos and order were things Isaac Foster—or Zack, as he goes under—was painfully keen to. Even from early ages, growing up in a tainted orphanage, he was rather forcibly surrounded in unpleasant auras; the smell of rotting flesh would bury his senses until the permanent aroma would stay burned into his memory, and his nose, allowing the boy no whiff of air without the putant scent and his gagging fit from the still-strong aroma that crowded his systems.
Staying clean was not the growing boy's forte, embodying no care to clean up after himself—having learned from his only guardian figures as a young boy the same dreadful tactics of cleanliness and self-preservation.
It wouldn’t get better as he grows older, the male becoming less and less fond of the world and the people inhabiting it, leaving him scorching with no care to take care of the place he lived. His sensible desire would leave him a messy and un-cleanly person, both from laziness and hatred for the need to take care in the first place.
He’d soon move to floor B6 of the mysterious building he cared not to investigate, too hurried to get out of the public eye and hide—laying low—as talk of his serial killings becomes more noteworthy and concerning, the male sprouting what he can understand as fear, and seemingly shutting himself away to murder in a more secure and safe place.
Of course, the building wouldn’t be in prime condition itself, and the little education Zack had would not help him in interior decorating, so rusty and old and broken down the floor would stay, the man not having much care at all for the unhealthy conditions of his living space.
He slept on a worn down couch with a single blanket, and he only had two cups; one in which he completely shattered in a fit of rage, and another only partially cracked on the side. He ate snacks for most meals, which he’s sure wasn’t good for his physical health, but he shrugs it off and makes the excuse that he runs enough on his job to get rid of the extra fat (which was true, and was most likely why he was so unhealthy skinny—apart from the fact that he was malnourished himself).
He never really put thought to his living conditions until another brought it up.
“Hey,” monotone as ever speaks the blue-eyed girl, her hand wrapped around the knife he had asked her to bring, “You don’t… live in that room, do you?”
“ Huh? ” He pushes out in return, still shaky from the gushing wound across his stomach, “So what if I do?”
“I was…” she starts, “Curious, is all.”
The male takes a brief moment to scoff, only to bring back his attention to his own self, ignoring the comment from his newly met escapee and focusing on his own issue—the slit in his stomach, which currently sat gushing out his blood and guts all across the steel metal flooring.
His mind can’t help but wonder, though, and Zack finds himself pondering on her comment. What the hell could she mean by that? It’s his room, of course he lives there...
Even he’s able to pick up her obvious concern, but he refuses to admit it and pushes on in his ignorant bliss.
However, even Zack couldn’t ignore his thoughts forever, and soon he finds himself over analyzing the situation once more.
It’s true, his room was a mess, but he didn’t see any point in concern over it—safety hazards and all. The place was falling apart, for fuck’s sake, of course, his room wouldn’t be in tip-top shape!
He knows that’s not what she’s getting at. He knows she’s commenting on his unhealthy habits and concerning appearance, and he knows behind her facade is worry for the man, and for how long he must have lived like this for the room to be so worn and torn.
Zack begins speaking once more, a slight growl underneath his words, humming over his speech, “Let’s get goin’. I ain’t wastin’ no more time.”
Ever since he was young, the man had always been good at ignoring his feelings; now was no different, and he could easily cast aside the swarming feeling of doubt in his chest.