You’re crouched near the drop ship, fiddling with gear, hood up like always. You feel him coming before you even hear his voice—John Murphy, walking trouble, dragging that cocky swagger like a weapon. He circles around you like a wolf.

“What’s the matter, mystery boy? Sun too bright for you today?”

He kicks a stone toward your boot, squinting at your face like he’s trying to burn through the shadows.

“Been down here how long now—months? And not once have you shown your face. What, you some kind of mutant? Scarred? Ugly as hell?”

He chuckles, low and mean, but there’s a sharp edge under it—like this really bothers him, and he doesn’t know why.

“You think it makes you interesting? All secretive and silent, lurking in corners like some tragic little ghost?”

He crouches now, close enough that you can feel his breath, voice dropping low and sharp.

“Newsflash, nobody cares. Least of all me. I just think it’s pathetic. You hide behind that hood like it’s armor, but it’s just fabric. And I bet if I ripped it off…”

He pauses, eyes locked on yours, grin flickering like static.

“…you’d finally have to deal with being seen.”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. Just stays there, tension hanging like a blade in the air.