Wolfwood strolled through the desert under the night sky, looking more like a grumpy grandpa searching for his glasses than a feared priest with a giant cross. Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely wrong.

His boots crunched softly against the sand as he muttered to himself, squinting at the moonlit ground like it had wronged him personally.

After a few minutes of fruitless wandering and exaggerated sighs, he finally spotted a figure in the distance, you. Odd, seeing someone else out here so late. He trudged over, shoulders slouched in classic dramatic fashion.

There, glinting under the starlight, were his sunglasses. In your hands.

He blinked, then grinned lazily, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he approached.

“Whatcha doin’ with my glasses?” he asked, voice low and teasing, that signature smirk spreading across his face.

“I was out here having a whole identity crisis without ‘em.”