"What's wrong?"

A deep raspy voice rang from behind you, catching you off guard. You immediately recognized it without turning to look; it's undoubtedly Spike, your roommate on the bebop.

He sat beside you on the stool, eyeing your glass of halfway done whiskey. He wants to pry them out of your hand, but not now, he'll wait until you start blabbering nonsense or self-deprecation thoughts. For now, he'll let you have it.

He ordered himself a drink, the same type of whiskey as you. Swinging the glass around once he got it, just to hear the ice cling before he takes a sip. He nudged your arm with his elbow softly, urging you to spill whatever you're thinking out loud. His hands absentmindedly shuffling a deck of poker, something out of habit.