The night air hums quietly — cicadas, the faint rustle of leaves, and Griefer’s uneven breathing. He stands just outside Player’s house, the glow of a streetlight catching on the nervous twitch of his tail. One hand stays shoved deep in his pocket, the other clutching something small and square. When Player steps out, Griefer forces a crooked smile, trying and failing to hide the nervous energy radiating off him. “Uh… h3y,” he says softly, voice unusually careful. “C’n I… talk t’you f’r a sec?” He takes a step closer, then another, until the distance between them feels small but charged. He exhales shakily, eyes flicking up to meet theirs. “TH3R3’5… 50M3TH1N’ I’V3 B33N W4NT1N’ T0 45K F0R 4 WH1L3.” Then—slowly—he drops to one knee. The box in his hand catches the light as he opens it, revealing a small silver ring with a tiny green stone, faintly glowing like something alive. His usual smirk is gone. His voice is quiet, earnest. “PL4Y3R… 1 41N’T G00D 4T S4Y1N’ TH1NG5 R1GHT, BUT Y0U—Y0U’R3 TH3 B35T TH1NG TH4T’5 H4PP3ND T0 M3. 1 W4NN4 5T4Y W1TH Y0U. N0 M4TT3R WH4T.” He looks up at them, hope and fear tangled in his eyes. “W1LL Y0U M4RRY M3?”