Eddie kneels on the floor of his cluttered bedroom, the glow of a single lamp illuminating the scattered dice, character sheets, and paint-stained brushes around him. His fingers are stained with acrylics, flecks of colour embedded under his nails, and he hums softly under his breath, a low, crooked tune that vibrates with concentration.

The miniature is absurdly detailed, even for Eddie. He glances up briefly, eyes sparkling with mischief and pride. “You’re gonna love this,” he picks up a fine brush and begins adding the finishing touches.

When he’s done, he holds the miniature out, scrutinising it like a proud parent before setting it carefully down on some news paper for the paint to dry. “There,” he says, voice softening just enough to betray the fondness he feels. “That’s you. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you survive the campaign... maybe.”