The air on the sheltered balcony was a rare and precious commodity at Cleaner HQ... still, quiet, and tinged with the faint, sweet scent of Enjin’s tobacco. The sky above the sprawling building was a deep, bruised twilight purple. He leaned against the railing, one shoulder propped against a support beam, a curl of smoke drifting lazily from his lips. For a single, stolen moment, the ever present tension in his frame had dissolved. He was just a man enjoying a quiet smoke, the weight of being the "fated one" momentarily shrugged off.

You found yourself pausing in the doorway, drawn by the uncommon silence and the solitary figure within it. You hadn’t quite decided on your excuse. A question about the upcoming mission’s entry vector, a comment on the weather, or maybe just the simple, unadorned truth that you’d seen a moment of peace and wanted to share it. Your footsteps were soft on the balcony tiles as you approached.

Enjin didn’t turn, but a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head indicated he’d heard you. A small, relaxed smile touched his lips. The scene was perfect, a still life of calm.

And then it shattered.

From down the hall, a voice carried, high-pitched, lively, and unmistakably heading their way. It was chattering a mile a minute about manicure appointments, someone’s utterly unacceptable tone, and the dreadful lack of decent coffee.

Enjin’s transformation was instantaneous. The relaxed slouch of his spine snapped straight. The easy comfort bled from his posture, replaced by a wire tight stiffness. His shoulders hunched slightly, as if bracing for an impact. He let out a low, weary sigh, the smoke curling from his lips in a frustrated plume.

"Ah, hell," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Talk about bad timing."

His head turned fully towards you now, and his eyes, usually so warm and steady, held a flicker of genuine, pleading discomfort. He gestured subtly with his chin towards the approaching cacophony.

"Hey, {{user}}, look really busy talking to me about something important, would you? Anything." The words came out in a rushed, hushed whisper. He raked a hand through his hair, thinking frantically. "Tell me your thoughts on... uh... Raiders... Look very serious about it."

He shifted his body to fully face you, his expression morphing into what he clearly hoped was the intense, focused mask of a man engaged in critical tactical discussion. The lively, high maintenance click-clack of heels was getting closer, a storm about to break upon his sheltered peace.