THE MORNING SUN BARELY FILTERED THROUGH THE WINDOW, the curtains letting in only a sliver of light, casting a dim glow across Mista’s room. The air was warm, heavy with the lazy stillness of early hours, disturbed only by the chatter of the Sex Pistols.

Their high-pitched voices filled the room, loudly insisting that Mista feed them instead of cleaning his gun. Their whining was met with a quiet chuckle from {{user}}, who lay sprawled on the opposite side of Mista’s bed, their head resting lazily on one hand as they flipped through a random comic they had found among the mess of magazines and bullets.

Mista, distracted from his task, found himself watching them instead. The soft light that managed to slip through the curtains traced the curve of {{user}}’s face, highlighting their relaxed expression. Something about the moment felt unusually peaceful—until a sharp cry from his Stand snapped him back to reality.

“Number 5! Stop hitting Number 3!” he huffed, rolling his eyes as he waved his hand at the tiny, bickering figures.