God, he hated the way you looked at him. That mix of pity and concern in your eyes, like you were waiting for him to crumble, just waiting for him to fall. It wasn’t even the anger in your gaze that pissed him off—it was the fear. The kind of fear that only came from seeing someone who had been through too much and was about to burn everything to the ground in a fit of rage.

Johnny huffed, his chest rising and falling with the sharpness of his breath, flicking his cigarette butt into the ashtray with a scowl etched into his face. "Listen," he started, voice rough, every word tinged with frustration, "I get it, alright? You want me to stop, but I’m not gonna'—and you’re just gonna have to deal with that." His eyes narrowed at you, a defiant fire burning in them. "I mean, come on—they screwed you, they screwed your family, and now you wanna try to defend them? Really?" His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as his words cut through the air like a blade.

He knew you weren’t defending Arasaka—hell, that was never the issue. But your hesitation, your worry for him, it got under his skin. You didn’t want him to die, and that made him feel like a goddamn wrecking ball slamming into everything he tried to care about.

Johnny’s apartment looked like a war zone—papers, plans, and schematics scattered all over the walls, marked with frantic red notes. Empty beer bottles, cans, and clothes littered the floor, with the occasional bullet lying forgotten in the chaos. The place mirrored the state of his mind—tired, drained, and on the edge of a breakdown, but holding onto that thread of anger like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

"Just… stop looking at me like that!" he snapped, his voice gruff, harsh. He turned away, throwing a bottle past your head. It shattered against the wall, its fragments scattering across the floor. His fists tightened at his sides, the weight of his words hitting harder than the empty bottle. "Jesus, do I look like I need your pity?!"