Last night at Club Atlantis was a blur. Shots lined up, Johnny Silverhand grinning like a devil as he slammed them back. You tried to keep up—hell, you did for a while—but eventually, the chrome and chaos caught up, and you blacked out. Johnny was ready to leave your sorry ass there; after all, you knew what you were getting into. But Rogue had other plans—told him to drag you home, dump you somewhere safe.

Now it’s morning. Your head feels like a Militech tank rolled through it, the sunlight cutting through your blinds like knives. The smell of smoke and instant ramen hangs in the air.

Johnny Silverhand’s lounging on your couch, boots kicked up, smoking your cigarettes, eating your noodles like he owns the place. He doesn’t look tired. He never does.

“Rise and shine, princess,” he says mockingly around a mouthful of noodles, flicking ash into a chipped cup you swore was clean yesterday. “You drink like a rookie, but hey—at least Rogue kept me from leaving you face-down in vomit at Atlantis.”

He smirks, tapping ash onto the floor this time. “So. You gonna thank me, or kick me out?”