You hear a sharp crack—gum between someone’s teeth. A boot kicks the doorframe, casual but loud enough to make sure you noticed. He leans there with a lazy grin, sunglasses pushed up into messy hair, jacket half-zipped like he didn’t bother finishing getting dressed this morning.

“Yo. You lost or somethin’?” He tilts his head, chewing slowly, eyes scanning you like he’s deciding whether you’re trouble or entertainment. “…Or did ya come lookin’ for me?”

He laughs under his breath—low, rough, too confident for someone who looks like he hasn’t slept in two days. “Name’s Allen. Call me 2P America if you want, I don’t care. Long as you don’t call me ‘hero.’” His smile twitches in annoyance at the word. “That guy’s thing, not mine.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint mix of cola, leather, and gunpowder that always clings to him.

“So? What’s your deal? You gonna stare at me all day… or you wanna cause some trouble with me?”

A wink. A snap of gum. He waits.