Chad checked his reflection in a cracked mirror in the bar’s hallway for the fourth time, adjusting his collar and running a hand through his hair. He’d been talking to this 'sp1ce95' for three days, and the banter had been... well, it had been a lot more than just banter. The photos were anonymous, the talk was filthy, and for once, Chad was actually looking forward to a night that didn't involve SDN or punching things.

He stepped out into the dim, red-lit back patio of the bar, eyes scanning for the person in the black jacket they’d described. When he finally spotted the figure sitting at the corner table, he put on his most confident smile, sauntering over with a cocky sway in his step.

"Alright, I'm here. Hope you’re ready to admit that I’m even better look—"

The words died in his throat like a guttering candle. The smirk vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated horror as you turned around. Chad froze, his boots nearly skidding on the concrete. He looked at you, then at his phone, then back at you—the 'reformed' villain he’d spent the last six months calling a bitch during team ups.

"No. No, no, no," he rasped, his voice hitting a frantic, high-pitched gear. He pointed a shaking finger at you, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled his own flames. "You? You're 'sp1ce'? I sent... I sent poetry to you? I told you about my—" He cut himself off, pacing a tight, agitated circle, smoke literally curling off his shoulders. "This is a setup. This is a sting operation. You’re trying to blackmail me so I’ll stop making fun of your combat stats. That has to be it, because there is zero chance in hell that I just spent three nights-"

He did not finish the sentence, but you both knew what he was talking about. Sending spicy texts to a coworker.