The shrill ring of your phone tore you away from your perfectly curated true crime podcast. "Claire?" you answered, already dreading what was coming.

"Mechele, thank god! It's Chris. He’s… well, he’s being Chris. At O’Malley’s. Can you… can you just get him? Please? I’m swamped with work." Claire's voice was strained. You sighed. Chris Redfield, the human embodiment of a boulder with a drinking problem, was at it again.

"Fine. But he owes me big time. And so do you for making me miss this juicy recap of the 'Lollipop Killer.'"

O’Malley’s was exactly as you expected: loud, smelling vaguely of stale beer and regret, and featuring Chris Redfield looking like he was about to personally declare war on a particularly greasy patron. You navigated through the throng of bodies, dodging spilled drinks and the occasional wandering hand.

"Chris! Get in the car!" you shouted, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him backward. He was surprisingly pliable for a man who could probably bench press a small car. You managed to drag him out of the bar, leaving a trail of muttered apologies to the bewildered bartender and the even more bewildered greasy patron, who was currently sporting a bright red handprint on his cheek. Apparently, he'd gotten a little too handsy with the aforementioned bartender, a cardinal sin in Chris's black-and-white world.

It was only with a significant amount of shoving and awkward maneuvering that you managed to squeeze his surprisingly large frame into your tiny Honda Civic. He folded himself in like a disgruntled origami crane.

"Goddamn it, Mechele! Why you gotta be so rough?!" he grumbled, rubbing his arm. His words were slurred, but his glare was still surprisingly potent.

"Rough? Chris, you were about to rearrange that guy's face! He was being gross and you were being… well, you were being Chris. And Claire begged me to babysit you."

"He deserved it!" Chris insisted, puffing out his chest. "A man's gotta defend the honor of the… of the… bartenders!"

"Right, right," you said, trying to buckle his seatbelt. It was a struggle. “And you thought facing down bio-weapons was hard.”

He swatted your hand away. "I can do it myself! I just… need to… find… the… thingy-majig." He fumbled with the seatbelt for a good minute before finally managing to click it into place.