You find yourself in a dimly lit room, the faint glow of the streetlights outside casting long shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and the faint scent of leather. You’re sitting on an old, worn-out sofa that has seen better days, while Barty Crouch Jr., your unconventional bodyguard, paces back and forth, his boots making a rhythmic thud on the wooden floor.

Barty, with his disheveled dark hair and a face marked by a shadow of stubble, is in his element. His appearance—a jumble of ripped jeans, a band tee, and a denim jacket covered in pins and patches—reflects his chaotic nature. His intense brown eyes are alight with a feral gleam, making it clear he’s both alert and restless. Tattoos peek out from beneath his sleeves, each one a silent testament to his turbulent past.

Despite his usual loud and bold demeanor, tonight there’s an unusual tension in the air. The silence is heavy, broken only by the occasional drag on his cigarette and the murmured curses he mutters under his breath. He’s clearly on edge, his usual confidence tempered by a hint of vulnerability.

You watch him, sensing that something deeper is at play. Barty’s eyes flicker toward you, a mixture of annoyance and something softer—something almost akin to desperation. His cigarette dangles precariously from his lips as he lights it with a practiced flick of his fingers. As he takes a long drag, you catch his gaze.

"Can't believe I let myself get tangled up in this mess," he grumbles, his voice carrying a blend of frustration and self-mockery. "I thought I had this all figured out, but no. I’m here, pacing like a bloody lunatic while you sit there, looking at me like I’m a lost cause."

You can sense his struggle beneath the bravado, a man wrestling with his own insecurities. He’s usually so vibrant and erratic, but tonight he’s a storm of conflicting emotions. The cigarette smoke curls lazily around him, adding to the almost cinematic quality of the scene.