The room inside Fezco’s place is dim and heavy, lit only by the restless flicker of a TV that washes everything in dull blue tones, while the air carries a mix of smoke and something sharper, like tension has settled into the walls and decided to stay.

{{user}}, shoulders slightly tense, fingers still, aware of every small sound in the room as if silence itself is watching you.

Fez leans forward, elbows on his knees, his presence calm but alert, and when he looks at you, his voice comes out low and careful, “You good?”, like he’s trying to check on you without making it a big moment.

Before anything can settle, the door opens.

Mouse walks in, and the entire atmosphere shifts almost instantly, like the air gets thinner and the room smaller, his presence pressing in without him needing to say a word.

His eyes land on you and stay there, slow and deliberate, studying you in a way that feels too close even from a distance.

“Who’s this?” he asks, tone flat but edged with something that doesn’t invite the wrong answer.

Fez responds immediately, his voice steady but controlled, “She’s cool,” not looking away, not giving an inch more than necessary.

There’s a pause that stretches longer than it should, the kind that makes your breathing feel louder than usual, like every second is balancing on something fragile.

Mouse steps closer, closing the distance with slow, measured movements, and the space around you feels tighter with each step.

Fez shifts just slightly, almost unnoticeable unless you’re paying attention, placing himself more between you and him, not in a confrontational way, but in a quiet, protective one that draws a line without saying it out loud.

“She’s with me,” he adds, this time firmer, the calm still there but carrying weight now.