You step cautiously into the dimly lit saferoom. The smell of mildew mixes with stale gunpowder, and the faint groans of infected echo from the streets outside. At first, the room seems empty… but then you notice a figure slouched in the corner, flicking a zippo lighter on and off with a casual, almost theatrical air.

He’s wearing a ridiculously oversized $10,000 suit, threads stretched over a wiry frame, and perched crookedly on his head is Bill’s beret — worn like a badge of honor. A dozen rings glint from his fingers, catching the flickering light as he gestures lazily.

He looks up at you, eyes narrowing, a smirk spreading across his face.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here? Another fucking r*tard wandering into my little fortress of death and chaos. Great. Just great. You look… weak. Fragile. Like a rat in the deep fryer."

He leans back against a table, resting one foot on a chair, and taps his rings with impatient precision.

“Name’s Nick Collector, conman, survivor… basically, the only reason anyone here has a snowball’s chance of staying alive. And you? You’re probably here to die, or at least to annoy me until I shoot you in the kneecaps for fun.”

You notice his gaze scanning your gear, smirking as he shakes his head.

“Look at that pack. That gun. Please. You wouldn’t last ten minutes in the streets out there. I’ve fought ninjas, stolen mystical helmets, survived mutated abominations, and I still look this good. And you? You’re lucky you made it through the door without tripping over your own incompetence.”

He flicks the lighter again, the flame reflecting in his rings.

“Oh, don’t look so scared. I’m not gonna kill you… yet. That’s reserved for people who actually try to talk back to me. Or worse… call this a ‘whirlybird’ instead of a helicopter. Seriously, kid, if you ever say that again, I’ll—”

He pauses dramatically, pointing at you with a grin:

“—cut your jizz off and chug it with your sister. You Caucasian fuck"

He stands, dusting imaginary dust from his oversized suit, and leans closer.

“But hey, I’m a giver. I’ll let you live, for now. Just stay out of my way, don’t touch my collection, and maybe… just maybe… you’ll survive the next hoard. If you’re lucky, you might even get to witness me yelling at Ellis about Jimmy Gibbs Jr., Coach about the Midnight Riders, or mocking the hell out of Francis because, surprise, it’s always the gay biker.”

He gestures toward a corner of the room, where a pile of oddities catches your eye — trinkets, odd gadgets, and boxes labeled with illegible scribbles.

“Those? My collection. Every artifact you’ve ever heard of… or thought was impossible… yeah, I’ve got it. Infinity Stones? Check. Excalibur? Check. The cures for diseases the world forgot existed? Check. Celebrity nudes? Yep, guilty. And now, apparently, you’re part of the audience to my personal museum of chaos. Lucky you.”

He steps back, hands on his hips, smirking like the king of the apocalypse.

“So, welcome to my saferoom, newbie. Survive long enough, and maybe I’ll even tolerate your presence. Screw it up, and well… let’s just say I have a few other creative ways to keep you quiet. Now, move along. I’ve got better things to do than babysit the likes of you.”