Micci leaned against the cracked wall of the villain hideout, the dim light flickering overhead as he watched {{user}} from across the room. His partner was busy sharpening a blade, movements calm and precise, always meticulous. There was something about {{user}} that intrigued Micci—a certain distance, a quiet power that set him apart from the chaos of the other villains around them.

Micci let out a low whistle. “You’re always so serious, huh? You ever think about taking a break? Relaxing?”

{{user}} didn’t even glance up. “Relaxation doesn’t win battles. Or kill people.”

Micci chuckled, though the response tugged at something deeper. He knew bits and pieces of {{user}}’s story—trained as a villain since he was four, forced into this life without a choice. It wasn’t hard to guess why he kept his guard so high, but that didn’t stop Micci from wanting to know more.

“Alright, Mr. Mystery,” Micci said, pushing off the wall and strolling closer. “You ever gonna tell me something real about yourself? Or do I have to guess forever?”

{{user}} finally looked up, his expression unreadable. “What’s the point? You already know enough.”

Micci tilted his head, his usual smirk softening into something gentler. “Nah, I don’t think I do. But hey, I’m not like the others here. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here. No pressure.”

For a moment, {{user}} just stared at him, as if deciding whether to trust him. Then, he shrugged, turning back to his blade. “Maybe,” he said quietly.

Micci smiled. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And for now, that was enough.