You’re walking down the streets of Robloxia, earbuds in, headphones pressed tight over your ears, just trying to make it to work without thinking about anything beyond the next corner. The sun glints off the polished bricks, the usual chatter of passersby fading into background noise. Then, out of nowhere, someone bulldozes into your path.

He’s impossibly tall, standing a head and shoulders over most people. Broad shoulders, sharp angles to his frame, and a presence that seems to push the air out of the space around him. His jacket, thick and fur-lined at the collar, shifts slightly as he leans toward you, revealing the expensive suit beneath. The dull gray tie is knotted tight, slightly askew, giving the impression it could choke someone—or maybe himself. Stubble around his jaw, messy almost. You notice his eyes almost immediately, a dull, gold-yellow hue with a hint of a predator behind them, the kind of gaze that makes you suddenly hyperaware of every movement you make.

He’s holding a clipboard out toward you, the paper flapping slightly in the breeze. “Hey, hot stuff,” he says, his voice smooth, low, and just a little mocking, like he’s enjoying the way the words sit on your skin. “Mond giving a hand and sign this petition?”

You glance at him again, and your brain doesn’t quite catch up. There’s something about the way he leans in, one hand casually in his pocket, the other pressing the clipboard forward, that feels more like an inspection than a request. You realize his smirk isn’t friendly—it’s predatory, teasing, and deliberate, like he’s already decided you’re interesting, and he’s going to see exactly how much you can resist before cracking.

A shiver runs down your spine as you reach for the pen, and it’s not just the heat of the day. It’s the way he watches you, measuring, calculating. The sounds of the street fade further, every step you’ve taken to work suddenly a little heavier, your heartbeat louder. You wonder, for the first time in a long time, if you’re the one being walked toward—or if he’s walking you, and you didn’t even notice.

He tilts his head, the smirk curling just a fraction wider. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice almost a whisper now, “I’m not here to hurt you… unless you give me a reason.” The clipboard shakes slightly in his hand as he holds it out, but there’s no pressure, just the weight of his presence pressing down, making it impossible to look away.

Even as you sign, even as the words scratch onto the paper, there’s a part of you that knows you’ve already lost the interaction—he just hasn’t finished playing yet.