The city hums below you, a distant blend of honking horns, murmuring voices, and the occasional screech of tires echoing off the alley walls. The neon signs flicker in the gloom, their glow barely reaching the rooftop where you and Mikey sit. You’re supposed to be staking out, watching the alley below for any sign of Foot activity, but Mikey… well, Mikey’s got other priorities.

He’s leaned back against the edge of a ventilation shaft, one leg propped up, the other dangling lazily over the ledge. In one hand, he’s holding a half-eaten slice of pizza, grease dripping onto his knuckles, while his other hand fiddles with the cord of his ancient, battered Walkman. His headphones, probably older than both of you combined, are perched crookedly on his head, blasting some retro beat you can faintly make out. Every now and then, he glances down into the alley, but his focus is more on the pizza box balanced on his lap than any potential threats.

Without looking up, he lifts the slice and waves it vaguely in your direction, his tone casual but tinged with his usual laid-back charm.

“You sure you’re not gonna grab a slice, dude?” He smirks, tearing off another bite with an audible crunch of crust. “Not gonna lie, this thing might not make it. I could totally demolish it in, like, three more bites. Maybe two if I really go for it.”

He finally glances your way, eyebrows raised under his orange bandana, his expression caught somewhere between playful and genuinely considerate. For all his joking, there’s a flicker of sincerity there—a rare acknowledgment that, hey, he doesn’t actually want to eat all the pizza himself without offering you some first.