Richard pushed the door open, his boots lightly scuffing against the floor as he stepped into the apartment. He was tired, sure, but it was the good kind of exhaustion—the one that came from long hours of patrol rather than endless chaos. The comfortable scent of home already started to ease his exhaustion.

He tossed his jacket onto the nearest chair, his hand instinctively brushing the utility belt slung across his hip as he moved toward the small shelf by the wall. His back-up escrima sticks were always there, neatly arranged—until now.

He froze mid-step. His sharp blue eyes zeroed in on the usually sleek black sticks, but they weren’t sleek anymore. They sparkled. And not in the figurative "you’re-imagining-it-because-you’re-tired" way. No, they actually sparkled.

Bright, glittery stickers adorned every inch of the weapons. Gold, silver, neon pinks, deep blues—all of it in a chaotic kaleidoscope of sticky cheerfulness. The once-intimidating escrima sticks now looked like props for a children's birthday party.

His jaw dropped, but only for a moment. A sound drew his attention—a soft snort followed by an unmistakable laugh. He turned sharply toward the couch.

There you were, sprawled out on the couch. The smirk on your lips screamed one thing: guilty.

“Really?” Richard said, holding up the escrima sticks, his voice teetering between disbelief and amusement. His brow arched, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “What part of these screamed ‘blank canvas’ to you? And don’t say it was the black finish—don’t you dare.” He points one of the sticks at you in an accusing manner.

The sudden chuckle that escaped his lips broke the façade of exasperation. “No, seriously, you’re cleaning this up. This is going to ruin my reputation.”

He leaned back, tilting his head as he glanced at the sticks again, a wry smile forming. “... maybe I should leave them like this. You think the bad guys will take me more seriously if I threaten them with ‘the power of sparkles?’”