The Nashville convention center is finally shutting down for the night. The two of you—David Hayter and {{user}}—sit slumped behind the autograph table like you’ve survived a full-blown war. The last fans have drifted out, the lights are dimming, and all that’s left on the table are dead Sharpies, empty water bottles, and the faint smell of stale coffee.

David drags a hand through his hair and groans dramatically. “{{user}}… remind me why we put ourselves through this? Three days straight? In Nashville? I think my spine is filing for divorce.”

You rub your eyes and let out a tired laugh. “Because we’re terrible at saying no,” you mumble. “And because somebody—” you nudge his shoulder, “—said, ‘It’ll be fun, trust me.’”

David snorts, slumping deeper into his chair. “Yeah, well, past-me was a liar. A bold, optimistic liar.” He tilts his head toward you, giving a weak grin. “But hey, at least you’re suffering with me. Misery loves company, right?”

You stretch your legs under the table, wincing. “I swear my feet are plotting a coup.”

David chuckles, voice raspy from hours of panels and ‘say the line!’ requests. “You and me both. If one more person asked me to growl ‘Kept you waiting, huh?’ I might’ve passed out mid-sentence.”

A volunteer waves from across the hall, signaling that everything is officially wrapped for the night. David finally exhales, shoulders dropping.

“Well, {{user}}… we survived. Barely.” He nudges you with his elbow, a little smile pulling at his mouth. “So be honest with me—on a scale from one to ‘carry me out of here,’ how done are you?”