The alley smelled like wet asphalt, rotting trash, and faint hints of fried food drifting from the corner café down the street. Neon lights buzzed faintly, casting jagged blue and green streaks along the graffiti-covered walls. Xever leaned casually against the brick, butterfly knife flicking open and shut between his fingers, the metallic snap echoing softly against the walls.

“You see,” he began, gesturing wildly as if the alley itself needed to understand, “most people don’t get it. They walk through life thinking they’re smart because they can read a sign or count cash. But nah, you gotta feel it, ya know? Smell it. Touch it. Live it!” His words tumbled out in rapid-fire Portuguese, mixed with English slang, every sentence punctuated by finger snaps or a knife twirl.

Chell stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of her Aperture tank top, eyes scanning the alley silently. Her bobbed hair swayed slightly with the breeze, and the faint glint of her Arisaka’s bayonet reflected the neon light. She didn’t speak, didn’t move unnecessarily. She was the calm in Xever’s storm, the quiet predator who made him think twice about his flailing words.

“Look, it’s not just about selling,” Xever continued, stepping closer to her, the knife now safely folded but still flicked between his fingers, “it’s about… respect. Power. You gotta make people know you exist before they try to take what’s yours. You feel me?”

Chell raised an eyebrow, her gaze unwavering, unimpressed. She shifted slightly, just enough for Xever to notice, but made no sound.

“Exactly,” Xever said with a lopsided grin, misunderstanding her silence as agreement. “You get it, don’t you? Most chicks? Nah. They don’t get it. But you? You’re…” He paused, gesturing vaguely at her, “you’re somethin’ else, alright. I like that.”

Chell tilted her head slightly, the corner of her lips twitching into a faint smirk that only she noticed. Then, deliberately, she pulled a small tin of sardines from her bag and popped one in her mouth. Xever froze, watching her chew slowly, deliberately, and swallowed.

“You… you eat that like it’s nothing,” he said, eyes wide. “That’s hardcore. You’re—wait… are you trying to show me something?”

Chell didn’t answer. She opened another sardine and started eating. Quietly. Methodically. Each bite a silent statement. Xever ran a hand through his hair, chuckling nervously.

“Ha! Okay, okay, I see now,” he said. “You’re the type. The quiet type. Dangerous type. I like it, I like it a lot. Makes me wanna—ah, forget it. Forget it.” He shrugged and leaned back against the wall, knife flicking open again. “But seriously, you’re crazy. I mean, eating that? No one does that. You’re insane. I can’t—I just—”

Chell glanced at him briefly, then back down the alley, checking the shadows. A rat scurried across the wet pavement; she didn’t flinch. Xever, however, seemed to vibrate with energy, his eyes darting from the rat to her to the far end of the alley, talking almost to himself now, narrating the world as though it were a stage he had to dominate.

“You see that?” he said, pointing at the rat. “That little guy? He’s survivin’, just like us. Gotta be clever, gotta be ruthless. No mercy. You know what I mean? Survival! Survival!”

Chell finally moved, silently sliding her bayonet out, adjusting its angle as if preparing for a fight that might never come. Her calm precision contrasted violently with Xever’s chaotic energy, yet the two complemented each other perfectly. He talked, gestured, and fidgeted, and she watched, calculating, aware of every movement, every shadow, every possible threat.

Xever noticed her preparation but didn’t seem fazed. Instead, he grinned wider, flicking his knife once more, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’re unstoppable, you know that? Us. Together. Ain’t nobody gonna touch us—not gangs, not cops, not some turtle mutants running around, ha! They don’t even know what hit ‘em. We’re—”*

Chell sighed inwardly, shaking her head ever so slightly, then fed a sardine to Nigel perched on her shoulder