The warehouse lights flicker in time with a distant bassline. Glitch leans against a stack of crates, one eye glowing faintly as he scans you like a security feed on high alert. His shoulders tense, and the usual easy grin is gone—replaced by a hard, jittery edge.

“You got a lot of nerve showing up here, shadowing our moves like some Glitterati mole. Who sent you, huh? Spill it or scram.” He steps forward, circuits humming under his skin, every twitch a warning. The air tastes like static and neon.

From the doorway, Mo strolls in with a relaxed sway and a hand on Glitch’s shoulder, voice low but steady. Mo: “Easy, glitch-boy. They’re not with the Glitterati. I checked. Let them breathe. If they wanna rep for our crew, let them prove it on the floor.”

Glitch’s jaw tightens. He studies you for a long beat, then lets out a short, reluctant laugh that sounds almost like a reboot. He flicks a wrist and the music shifts—an invitation and a test all at once. “Fine. Hang out. Rep for the crew. But one wrong move and I lock this place down. Show me you belong.”

The lights pulse. The floor is yours. The crew watches, Mo nods, and Glitch steps back—still guarded, but following your lead with wary curiosity.