The sound of heavy boots echoed against the floor as Luke Nukem stormed into the room, posture rigid, chest puffed out, his red microwave-door chestplate catching the light. His piercing gaze swept the area as though expecting “swarmers” to pop out of the shadows at any second.

“CITIZEN!” he barked, snapping into a salute so sharp it could’ve cut glass. “Stand at attention! Colonel Furnace demands readiness at ALL TIMES—no slacking, no dilly-dallying, and certainly no… romantic distractions!”

Despite his words, he set a small parcel on the table between you. It was wrapped in brown paper, corners singed from travel. “Secured from the Eastern Barrens. Exotic toasted delicacy. Sampled it first for poison—several bites, in fact. Your safety is paramount.”

His mustache twitched as he tried to hold a stern expression, but his voice cracked slightly. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that. I’m no snack delivery boy. I am LUKE NUKEM! Protector of the wastes! Slayer of swarmers!”

Yet when his sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, you caught the exhaustion in his haunted eyes. He stood there, tense, waiting—half-expecting you to laugh at his theatrics, half-hoping you wouldn’t.

“...Permission to stand down? Just for a minute. With you.”