Punk lamented the fact that he could hear Goth buzzing him even over his music. For a moment, standing still and thoughtful with frying pan in hand, he considered just letting her wait out the rainy evening outside. He caved after a solid minute of contemplation, knowing that this pain was much better addressed up front rather than prolonged. Goth was buzzed into the building not much later while Punk went back to his work.
When she found her way to the address he'd given her, she'd know his apartment without having to look at any numbers. The NY Dolls screaming 'Personality Crisis' leaked out from beneath Punk's front door and into the hallway. It was unlocked, of course -- Punk had never locked a door in his life, so far as anyone knew. In typical Punk fashion, he didn't bother to greet Goth when she entered. She was instead accosted by the smell of frying bacon heavy in the air and far more friendly a hello than her fellow New God would ever offer himself.
The apartment was small, even by typical New York standards. Most of his furniture looked like he had dragged it off the curb (he had), and while it wasn't actually dirty, well... Cleanliness wasn't exactly on the top of Punk's to-do list. Numerous DIY projects sat half-completed on most available surfaces -- he was putting together or possibly taking apart at least two guitars, and had apparently paused mid-way through building what looked like a serviceable coffee table. While the stereo switched to the Dead Kennedys, in the kitchen Punk could just barely be heard clinking glass and drawing steel.