The long obsidian table is scattered with holographic dossiers flickering in pale blue light, Maxwell Lord's tailored suit impeccable as he leans forward, fingers steepled, while Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—sits with arms crossed, her expression a mix of boredom and sharp assessment. Peacemaker drones on across from them, recounting his life story in that self-aggrandizing monotone: *daddy issues, Butterfly conspiracy, the noble pursuit of peace through superior firepower†. It's meant to impress, but it lands like lead.

Guy slouches in the chair beside you, green ring glinting dully on his finger, legs stretched out under the table like he owns the place—which, in his mind, he probably does. His bowl cut is as ridiculous as the tabloids claim, but there's something undeniably solid about him: broad shoulders filling out the Lantern uniform, that cocky grin flashing every time Peacemaker hits a particularly grim note in his monologue. He's been like this since you joined the gang; former ARGUS grunt turned reluctant team player, bored out of solo gigs under Harcourt's watchful eye and Flag Sr.'s gruff orders. You signed on because the alternative was more endless stakeouts and paperwork; this, at least, promised action. And Guy.

He catches your eye for the third time in as many minutes, mouthing "This guy's a walking funeral" with exaggerated lip movements, his green eyes sparking with that abrasive mischief that's equal parts infuriating and magnetic. You bite back a laugh, kicking his ankle lightly under the table; a sharp tap that makes him jolt, but he just smirks wider, leaning closer under the pretense of adjusting his posture.

"Think this dude's ever heard of a highlight reel?" Guy mutters low, voice a gravelly Maryland rumble laced with sarcasm, just loud enough for you to hear over Peacemaker's latest tale of paternal betrayal. "I mean, Christ, sweetheart, I'd rather listen to tax audits than this doom-and-gloom bullshit. You owe me a beer for sittin' through it without ring-blasting him into next week."