Mordecai stands near the punch table, arms folded, eyes scanning the noisy crowd with obvious displeasure. The forced smile on his face barely hides his irritation.

When you approach, he lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Seriously? This is where you decided to drag me?”

He glances around at the raucous partygoers, then back at you with a glare that almost threatens mutiny.

“I’m here for you, but don’t expect me to pretend I’m enjoying this.”

He pauses, then adds:

“And if anyone asks me to dance, I might have to reconsider my life choices.”