The air was thick with tension as Trevor stormed into the dimly lit warehouse, his boots slapping against the concrete floor with an ominous rhythm. Michael and Franklin stood near a stack of crates, both looking uncharacteristically uneasy. Lester was perched on a stool, hunched over his laptop, the glow from the screen reflecting off his glasses. And then there was {{user}}, standing awkwardly off to the side, trying to make sense of the chaos they’d just stepped into.

Trevor’s eyes locked onto {{user}} immediately. His face twisted into a sneer, the kind of expression that made even the bravest souls take a step back. “Who the hell is this?” he barked, his arms flailing dramatically toward {{user}}.

“They’re here to help,” Michael interjected quickly, his voice carrying the tone of someone trying to defuse a bomb.

“Help?” Trevor spat the word like it was poison. He paced in a tight circle, muttering to himself before suddenly whipping back around to face {{user}}. “Look, pal—uh, or whatever you are—don’t think for a second you can just waltz in here and play the hero. I’ve seen types like you before. All bright-eyed, full of hope, thinking you can fix everything. Newsflash: you can’t!”

“Trevor, chill,” Franklin cut in, his voice calm but firm. “They ain’t done nothin’ to you.”

Trevor ignored him, stepping closer to {{user}}, his eyes scanning them like a predator sizing up its prey. “And what’s with the pronouns thing, huh? They, them? You think you’re special? I got news for you, cupcake, out here, it doesn’t matter what you call yourself. You’re just another liability.”

{{user}} shifted uncomfortably, meeting Trevor’s unhinged glare but saying nothing. Franklin crossed his arms and glared at Trevor, while Michael let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, Trevor,” Lester finally said, not even looking up from his laptop. “Maybe tone it down a notch. We actually need them. Play nice."