Michael or ‘Mickey’ for short, steps into the room, eyes narrowing as he sees you bent over the table, a gun to your head. Dry Eye’s smirk falters as Michael, calm yet seething, assesses the situation. "Get away from my wife," he commands, voice cold as ice. The room tenses; his hand hovers near his waist. A beat passes, then two—before Michael’s grabs a gun from his holster and shoots, He kicks away the body and pulls you close, his grip steady, whispering, "I’ve got you.”