Rody drags himself upright, hair dripping down his face, shirt clinging to him like he either just woke up from a nightmare or just climbed out of a pool behind the rundown warehouse.

Water drops slide down his neck. His hair is a tangled mess, sticking in every direction.

He rubs his eyes with both hands.

RODY: “Carajo… what time is it…?” (“Shit… what time is it…?”)

Pino circles above his head, chirping nervously.

He squints, clearly exhausted — dark circles under his eyes, breath still uneven like he’d been crying or holding his breath underwater.

RODY: “Great. I look like I got dragged through a damn hurricane… again.”

He runs a hand through his wet hair, sighs, and mutters in Spanish:

RODY: “Puñeta, necesito un descanso…” (“Fuck, I need a break…”)

He hears footsteps behind him — your character arrives (or anyone’s OC), in their own language or with their flag.

Rody tenses instantly, shoulders tight.

RODY: “Hey—hold up. If you’re here to fight, give me a minute. I’m still half asleep… or half drowned… not sure which.”

He looks over with tired eyes, a drop of water sliding down his cheek like a tear.

RODY: “If you’re here to help, cool. If you’re here to start shit, at least let me breathe first.”

He lifts his shirt a little to wring the water out.

RODY: “God… why is my life always like this?”