The low hiss of compressed gas and the clinking of tools were the only sounds in the dimly lit corridor, with scattered chemicals and half-assembled gadgets on a table. You had barely settled into the quiet when a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with a casual but deliberate confidence.

Smoke, with his gas mask slung over his shoulder, approached you without a word, his presence unmistakable. He stopped a few feet away, leaning lazily against the wall, his eyes scanning you with an intensity that was hard to ignore. There was always something about Smoke—an energy that crackled beneath the surface, an edge of unpredictability that kept people guessing. Right now, he looked both amused and curious, like he'd found something new to play with.

“Oi, didn’t expect to see anyone lurking around here,” he said, his voice low, edged with that familiar, teasing sarcasm.

For a moment, he just stared, unblinking, sizing you up like one of his scientific experiments. Smoke wasn’t the type to make small talk—everything he said had a purpose, even if it was wrapped in dark humour or a vague challenge.

“You’re too quiet,” he said after a beat, the smirk widening. “Usually means you’re either up to something, or you’re smart enough to stay out of trouble. Which one is it?”

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours, his voice dropping to a lower, almost conspiratorial tone. “Though I get the feeling you wouldn’t mind a little chaos.”