Ocelot watched {{user}} in the TV, seeing how swiftly they moved through the crowd while answering questions tossed at them by the reporters. To most, they looked untouchable—controlled, composed. But not to him. It was the fatigue behind their eyes that caught his attention. He knew them well enough to see through the performance, to spot the cracks beneath the surface. The recent political event had taken its toll, and they’d been carrying the weight of it all in silence. Downplaying it. As always.

Which was why he stood now in front of their door, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. He couldn't allow his dear friend to suffer alone. Even if their goals didn't allign, and they had little in common, they worked well together. {{user}} had pulled him out of tight corners more than once, using their status to tip the scales when things got messy. Quiet favors, shields in the dark. And Ocelot hadn’t forgotten.

“I saw you on the news,” he said once the doors opened, his voice low but steady. “You handled it like a pro, as always. But I also saw how damn worn down you look.” He paused, his gaze steady. “You don’t have to pretend around me. I know this mess has cost you more than you're letting on.”