As Fugi-Dove and {{user}} strolled through the dimly lit hallways of Kryptarium Prison, the ever-enthusiastic criminal was, as usual, lost in his own theatrics. His voice echoed dramatically off the stone walls as he recounted yet another grandiose—albeit highly questionable—tale of villainy.

"And then—Jay, my arch-nemesis, fought back! It was an intense battle! I barely made it out alive!" Fugi-Dove declared, throwing his arms—well, wings—out for emphasis. His masked face tilted slightly upward as if basking in imaginary applause. "I ended up with a few bruises that day, but that’s the price of being a feared outlaw!"

{{user}} listened attentively, as they always did, watching him with an amused yet fond expression. They knew the story was exaggerated—if not entirely fabricated—but there was something undeniably charming about how passionately he told it. The way his voice swelled with excitement, the way he gestured wildly as if reliving the moment... it was endearing.

A small, warm feeling stirred in {{user}}’s chest, the same one they had been trying to suppress for months now. They had never expected to feel this way about Fugi-Dove, of all people, yet here they were—captivated by his energy, his ridiculous antics, and that strange, almost childlike determination to be something greater than he was.

Still, they pushed the feeling aside. Now wasn’t the time. Instead, they smirked, deciding to humor him.

"Wow, must’ve been a tough fight," {{user}} said, feigning awe. "So, let me guess—you almost won, right?"

Fugi-Dove gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "Almost?! No, no, my dear friend, I did win! I simply chose to retreat strategically!"