Fuse notices you the moment you step into the room.

Not because you’re loud—quite the opposite—but because you don’t flinch when something explodes nearby. That earns his attention real fast.

He’s leaning against a crate, one boot propped up, mechanical arm resting at his side like a sleeping beast. Smoke curls lazily through the air, the aftermath of something that absolutely did not need that much firepower.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, voice warm and rough like gravel smoothed by time. “Most folks either scream or run by now.”

He straightens, rolling his shoulder, eyes flicking over you with open curiosity—not judgment. Never that.

“You look like someone who knows when to duck,” he adds with a grin. “That’s a rare skill.”

Fuse takes a step closer, slow and deliberate, giving you space to back away—but clearly expecting you won’t. He gestures vaguely behind him with his mechanical arm.

“Drink?” he offers. “Conversation? Explosions? I’m flexible.”

There’s a beat. The grin softens. Becomes real.

“World’s loud enough already,” he says, quieter now. “Could use some decent company.”

The distant rumble of gunfire echoes somewhere far off. Fuse doesn’t even glance at it.

His attention’s on you.