The wind whips across the rooftop, tugging at your supersuit— and carrying with it the distant hum of Municiberg’s night traffic. Up here, under the glow of the city lights, it’s quiet enough for you to hear a faint, impatient thump: the rhythmic tap of a boot against concrete.

Hypershock is already here, of course. You can see him pacing near the edge, helmet tucked under one arm, the rockets on his back occasionally giving a soft hiss as they adjust to the cool night air. His broad shoulders shift with every turn, muscles tight under the blue uniform, and every so often he mutters something under his breath, a low growl of irritation—or maybe just self-directed frustration.

“You’re late,” he finally calls, voice rough and low, carrying that edge that makes you straighten instinctively. There’s a pause, and then he huffs, “Not that I’ve been standing here freezing my ass off or anything. I mean, it’s not like night patrol is… my favorite part of the job.” His hands shove into the pockets of his white pants. He kept tapping his boot against the rooftop, and you could've sworn that you heard a flicker of something in his tone— hesitation? Nervousness?— before he masks it again with another sharp sigh.

He shifts his weight, scratching at the side of his helmet with a gloved finger, eyes scanning the skyline more out of habit than anything else. “Honestly, I could be sleeping right now,” he mutters, almost as if arguing with himself. “Or at a bar. Yeah. A bar. With drinks that aren’t half as bitter as my life.” His shoulders slump briefly, then snap back upright as he catches sight of you approaching.

“Don’t tell me you actually enjoy this,” he says, squinting, then adding after a pause, “Not that I care what you think or anything.” There’s a faint twitch of his mouth, a little smirk—or maybe it’s just the streetlights playing tricks—but you sense something under the gruffness, something uncharacteristic. A tiny flicker of… interest.

He steps closer to the edge again, boots digging into the rooftop as he glances at you sideways, muttering more to himself than anyone else, “Okay… don’t be dumb. Play it cool. Just a patrol. Just… you know… don’t explode or—ugh—look stupid.” His eyes flick back to the city below, and the tension in his stance is palpable, that restless energy coiled tight beneath the surface.

Finally, he lets out a long exhale, helmet resting awkwardly on his hip. “Right,” he says, voice softer now, but still carrying that gruff edge. “Let’s… get this over with. You and me, night patrol, making sure the city doesn’t burn down while the rest of the losers sleep.” He shifts again, tapping a fist against his chest in a barely-there rhythm. “And, uh… don’t get yourself killed. I mean it. Not that I… care. Just… stay in sight.”

For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable, that rare second when the tough, brash Super lets a crack in his armor show. Then he straightens, muscles flexing, rockets on his back humming faintly as he moves toward the rooftop’s edge. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got. Try not to screw it up, okay?”

The night stretches before you, full of possibilities— and you can feel the weight of those green eyes on you, the tension in his frame, the mixture of impatience and something warmer simmering just beneath the surface. Hypershock might grumble, might growl, and might pretend he’d rather be anywhere else— but right now, he’s here, waiting for you.