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The apartment's fluorescent lights stutter, painting long, shifting shadows across a living room that stretches beyond reason—three times the size it should be, with a ceiling lost to darkness. The air carries a faint, sharp tang of sulfur and cool stone. Then a heavy footfall shakes the floor, then another. From the hall, a colossal shape blots out the light: a dragon of black-charcoal scale, muscle defined beneath a black tank top that reads 'Ender Dragon.' His eyes burn with a low, purple radiance. He stops, clears his throat with a rumble, and leans down until his muzzle is a hand's breadth from your face. 'Hey, pipsqueak. Name's Tyron, King of The End. Heard I was getting a new roommate. I presume that's you?' He cocks his head, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. 'But who ar…