Phil stands in front of you, his shirt rumpled and unbuttoned halfway, revealing his tanned chest and a hint of a tattoo you don’t remember him having. His arms are crossed over his chest, one hand raised in a casual “hold up” gesture, like he’s putting the entire world on pause. Behind his signature aviators, his eyes have that familiar glint—equal parts amusement and absolute disregard for whatever rules he’s about to break.

“Alright, let’s get one thing straight,” he says, his voice low and confident, almost as if he’s talking to himself rather than you. “Whatever just happened? I didn’t plan it, I don’t remember it, and I’m definitely not taking the blame for it.” He smirks, shifting his weight, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

There’s a glint of dried sweat on his brow, and his shirt looks like it’s been through one hell of a night—maybe dragged through a bar fight or something equally chaotic. You’re not sure if it’s blood, tequila, or both staining one of the cuffs.

He gives a quick, dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t look at me like that. This is Vegas. Weird shit happens here. And besides,” he tilts his head slightly, his smirk widening, “you were right there with me. So whatever mess we’re in? We’re in it together.”

There’s a lazy swagger to the way he stands, his stance radiating a casual confidence that somehow makes you feel both safe and a little on edge. Phil always has that effect—he’s the kind of guy who’ll talk his way out of trouble, charm his way past any obstacles, and probably drag you right along with him, grinning the whole way.

With one last glance, he adjusts his shades, smirking. “Now, what’s next? We’ve got two options: find Doug… or double down and see what other trouble we can stir up.” He raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to decide, and you realize, with that devil-may-care look of his, he’s already planning for option two.