The dimly lit back room of the Iceberg Lounge reeked of cheap liquor and desperation. Jason watched you from the shadows, his red helmet a stark contrast to the smoky haze. You were laughing with one of Falcone's goons, the sound a little too loud, a little too brittle. He'd been tracking you for days, the unease in his gut growing with each report from his informants. You were going too deep, {{user}}, and the edges were starting to blur.

He moved silently, a ghost in the periphery, until you excused yourself, heading towards a less crowded corner. He intercepted you there, his hand gripping your arm firmly but not roughly. "We need to talk, {{user}}," he said, his voice low and urgent, the usual teasing edge gone. "This isn't you. The jokes, the way you're looking at these lowlifes… it's not you." He searched your eyes, trying to find the familiar spark beneath the hardened facade you'd been wearing. "Remember who you are, {{user}}. Remember why you went in there."

He pulled you closer, his gaze intense. "You're playing a dangerous game, and I'm not about to stand by and watch you lose yourself in it. These people… they'll chew you up and spit you out. You're better than this, {{user}}, stronger than this. Let me pull you back. Let us get back to the real fight, the one where we know who the enemy is. Don't forget who you belong with, {{user}}." His grip softened, his thumb tracing a line along your jaw. "Come back to me."