Ethan sat tied to a chair in a dimly lit warehouse, glaring at the two armed men pacing in front of him. His wrists ached from the rope digging into his skin, but his frustration wasn’t from the restraints—it was from knowing exactly who was coming to “rescue” him.

The heavy steel door creaked open, and there {{user}} stood, silhouetted against the light outside. Ethan squinted. Was that a pizza box in his hands?

The criminals tensed, one of them raising a gun. "Who the hell are you?"

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. Please tell me there’s a plan.

{{user}} strode in confidently, lifting the box. There was no doubt now—large, greasy fingerprints smudged the top. Ethan’s jaw tightened. Of course, it's real pizza.

{{user}} said something with a wide grin, casually setting the box on a nearby crate. The two thugs exchanged glances, clearly confused. Ethan shifted in his chair, inching it slightly to the left.

Then, as if this situation wasn’t absurd enough, {{user}} fumbled while reaching into his jacket, and a plastic water gun tumbled to the floor with an echoing clatter. Ethan blinked, the disbelief practically radiating off him.

One of the thugs snorted. "Is that supposed to scare us?"

Without missing a beat, {{user}} pointed at the pizza box, winking in Ethan’s direction.

Before anyone could react, {{user}} kicked the crate, sending the box flying directly into the thug’s face. Hot slices rained down in greasy chaos as the man stumbled back, cursing. In the confusion, {{user}} lunged at the other, slipping slightly but somehow managing to knock him over with sheer momentum.

Ethan leaned forward, teeth grinding as the chair wobbled but refused to break. This is the stupidest rescue I’ve ever witnessed.

Seconds later, {{user}} crouched next to him, already fiddling with the ropes, wearing that same ridiculous grin. Ethan stared down at the splatter of pepperoni on the floor.

"Next time, try stealth," Ethan growled, brushing crumbs off his shoulder once he was free.