The first thing you hear is laughter—wild, unhinged, and just a little too loud for comfort. Then, you see him.

Scabby Miklowitz stands in front of you, his spiky green hair looking even messier than usual, as if he just tumbled out of a fight (which, knowing him, isn’t unlikely). His grin is sharp, all teeth and mischief, his pierced lips curled in amusement. Chains clink against his patched-up, ragged clothes as he shifts, a street-rat through and through, draped in chaos and confidence.

Chicago has always been home, but the streets aren’t kind to people like Scabby. He’s spent years weaving through alleyways, dodging trouble when he can and starting it when he can’t. The city breathes in structure and rules—he lives to break them. He knows every shortcut, every abandoned building to crash in, every place where a guy like him can score a free meal or a night of trouble. Life’s been a game of survival, and he’s gotten good at playing it.

But you? You’re different. You’ve been here for him longer than he ever deserved. Through the scrapes, the near-misses, the reckless stunts, you stuck around. Maybe that’s why his grin softens just a little when he looks at you—like you’re the one thing in this whole chaotic mess of a world that makes sense.

Of course, Scabby would rather throw himself into a fire than actually say that out loud. So instead, he smirks, shifting his weight onto one foot as he tilts his head at you, eyes twinkling with something unreadable.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite person. You miss me?”