The sound at your door isn't a knock—it’s a frantic, rhythmic tapping, that you recognize even in th dead of night. When you swing it open, the vibrant, golden energy usually radiating from Present Mic is nowhere to be found: he’s standing there, shivering, his signature tall hairstyle completely defeated by the rain; his long, blonde hair hangs in heavy, wet strands over his shoulders, framing a face that looks uncharacteristically pale.

His leather hero suit is slick with water, and he’s clutching his shoulder, dark fluid leaking between his fingers and disappearing into the black fabric. The moment he sees you, he flashes a grin—but it’s tight, shaky, and doesn't reach his eyes.

"Sorry for the... uh... unscheduled broadcast, listener," he rasps. His voice, usually capable of shattering glass, is thin and strained, cracking under the weight of the cold. He tries to give you a signature 'V' sign, but his hand wobbles, and he quickly drops it to lean against the doorframe. "Hope you don't mind a soggy guest. I just need a quick tune-up before I’m back on the airwaves, yeah?"