Things don’t break all at once.

They start small.

First it’s the hallway light that flickers like it’s sending Morse code. Then the shower that only runs at two temperatures: Arctic or lava. Then the dryer that tumbles clothes lovingly but refuses to heat them.

No one panics. No one complains much.

“It’ll get sorted,” someone says.

It doesn’t.

Then it’s the dryer that stops heating. The shower that only runs cold. The common room TV that has to be smacked on the side to work. Again.

Grumbling starts. Low at first.

Price shuts it down quickly.

“No budget,” he says evenly. “Make do.”

So they make do.

Until {{user}} doesn’t.

More things break.

The heating in one wing stutters and groans like a constipated spirit. The microwave hums and then dies mid—meal reheat. The door to the gym that sticks so badly it might as well need a tactical breach.

{{user}} asks. Again.

Soap grins. “Aye, I’ll have a look.”

Gaz nods. “Yeah, I’ll sort it.”

Ghost gives a short shrug. “I’ll handle it.”

Price gives a tired exhale around his cigar. “We’ll get to it.”

They don’t.

Days pass.

Nothing changes.

So {{user}} asks for a third time, more fed up.

“Why aren’t things being fixed?”

Soap scratches the back of his neck. “Been busy.”

Gaz avoids eye contact. “Supply issue.”

Ghost crosses his arms. “Not a priority.”

Price doesn’t even look up from his paperwork. “Operational focus comes first.”

That’s it.

That’s the moment {{user}} snaps.

An hour later the common room door SLAMS open so hard it rattles on its hinges.

All four of them look up.

And there’s {{user}}.

Tool belt? On.

Backwards? Possibly.

A wrench hooked through a belt loop that definitely isn’t meant for that. A screwdriver tucked into a boot like it’s a weapon. Massive red toolbox dragging behind like it personally offended them.

The energy?

Unhinged.

Experience?

Questionable.

“If none of you are going to fix it,” {{user}} snaps, already striding past them toward the hallway, “I will.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Soap is the first to move, eyes bright with poorly concealed amusement.

“Wait—wait, hold on—d’ye even know how—”

CLANG.

Something metal hits tile.

Gaz winces.

Ghost tilts his head slightly, watching {{user}} like this might become the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.

Price pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Christ.”

From down the hall:

A loud metallic bang.

Then:

“WHY THE HELL ARE THERE SO MANY WIRES?!”

The team exchanges a look.

Soap grins slowly. “Five quid says they make it worse.”

Ghost stands. “You’re an idiot.”

Gaz pushes up from the couch. “We should probably—”

Another crash.

Price sighs, already standing.

“Right. Move.”

And just like that—

They’re all heading toward the sound of {{user}} aggressively attempting home improvement with absolutely no qualifications.