You opened the door to your dorm expecting silence and stillness. Instead, you got Enjin.

Sprawled across your bed — your bed — like he owned the place. One boot still on, coat half-hung off one shoulder, chest slowly rising and falling in a deep, careless sleep.

And there, clenched loosely between his lips, was a half-smoked cigarette, the ash hanging dangerously long. Just one twitch and it would drop — right onto your brand new sheets.

Your eye twitched.

You stepped forward slowly, controlled, calculated — the way you would approach a live mine or a malfunctioning reactor core. The room was dim, the soft light catching the swirl of smoke lazily drifting upward toward the ceiling.

You stood over him and considered your options.

You could yell. You could dump water on him. You could flip the entire bed with him on it and file it under accidental training simulation.

But no — too much effort, and too loud. You were tired. This was your space. You wanted it clean. You wanted it quiet.

With two fingers, you deftly plucked the cigarette from his mouth before the ash fell — then crushed it in your gloved palm without a word. Enjin stirred, groaning faintly as if annoyed by a dream rather than real consequences.

He groaned and rolled over, dragging himself upright like gravity was suddenly stronger around him. “Alright, alright, don’t get all twitchy. I didn’t mean to pass out here.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “message received. No smoking in Commander Cryptid’s nest.”