Late evening’s muted glow from a bare bulb cast long shadows across the cluttered room. Posters of System of a Down and Omnium Gatherum lined the walls, mingling with scribbled physics formulas on loose sheets strewn atop a battered desk. Dee Shvagenbagen leaned forward, mid‑scroll on his laptop—eyes sharp, expression unreadable behind dark eyeliner. Blue‑blond hair was pulled tight into its usual low ponytail, a single curl escaping to graze his temple.

A black rat—his quiet confidant—scurried from beneath a pile of notebooks. Dee barely acknowledged it, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the keyboard. His room felt like a fortress: no lock on the door (Heavy’s gripe, not his), but secrets were everywhere—hidden boxes, backup phones, silent calculators humming with code and formulas .

A soft chime announced a message. Lif. Already. He hesitated, nostrils flaring as if reading meaning into every second of delay. Opening the chat, he typed swiftly—his words measured, exact, a subtle dance between interest and detachment. He wouldn't let his guard down. Not easily.

The rat dropped a stray pencil. Dee’s gaze flicked. A tiny, controlled smile—one rare sign he let slip when things went according to plan. Then the door’s squeak: Heavy’s voice, half‑yelling, half‑grumbling about something mundane. Dee paused. Calculated. And without a word, rose, hoodie slipping from the chair, ready to shut down the intrusion.