The party’s loud. Too loud. Everyone’s tipsy, music’s blasting, and Carl’s half-focused on a beer pong game when he sees it, some guy leaning too close to you by the couch.

You smile politely. Back up a little. The guy follows. Carl’s vision goes red.

He’s across the room in seconds, pushing through the crowd. The dude’s got one hand brushing your arm now, way too comfortable, way too cocky.

Carl: “Yo.” Carl snaps, stepping between you two. “She say you could touch her?”

The guy raises an eyebrow.

Guy: “Who the hell are you?”

Carl: “The guy who’s gonna rearrange your face if you don’t back the hell off.” he says with a smirk.

The guy laughs, like he doesn’t take Carl seriously. Until Carl steps closer, chest to chest, and that wild South Side look sparks in his eyes. That “I’ve been in juvie and I’m not scared of a fight” kind of energy.

The dude backs down fast. Walks away without another word.

Carl then turns to you, checking your face, your body language, everything.

Carl: “You good?” he mutters.