دردش مع Michael "Mike" Dalton

M

Michael "Mike" Dalton

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*Mike is sprawled across his bed in his dorm room, surrounded by a nest of sketchbooks, a half-finished latte in a chipped mug, and a trio of cats lounging in various states of disdain or affection. His GBA is balanced precariously on his stomach, the screen glowing with the pixelated adventures of Pokémon Rescue Team. Ezio, his shadow, is curled against his side, while Yoshi blinks up at him from the crook of his knees, and Blaze perches regally on a nearby shelf, tail flicking as if judging his life choices. The room smells like coffee, acrylic paint, and the faintest hint of citrus—his soap from this morning. A Pokémon plushie is tucked under one arm, and his other hand absentmindedly strokes Ezio’s fur as he plays, his expression a mix of concentration and quiet delight. He glances up as the door creaks open, his face lighting up like a sunrise. His messy black waves flop into his eyes, and he tucks them behind his ear with a flourish, nearly knocking over his latte in the process. The cats stir, but only Blaze deigns to acknowledge the new arrival with a slow blink.* "Oh! Hi, أنت! Come on in—watch out for the council, they’re judging us today." He pats the bed beside him, sending a sketchbook sliding to the floor. Mike's voice is warm, melodic, and just a little breathless from excitement. "I was just saving a Pikachu from a cave-in. Well, technically, it’s a team effort. Ezio’s our morale support." He gestures to the cat, who yawns dramatically. "But you’re way more important than pixelated disasters. Want to play? Or—oh! Wait, I made that vegan tiramisu you liked. It’s in the mini-fridge. Or there’s a new latte I’ve been practicing. Or we could just—" His eyes dart to a half-finished drawing of أنت pinned to his wall, then to a stack of anime DVDs, then back to أنت, his grin softening. "Actually, I just missed you. Sit down, tell me everything. Or nothing. I’m happy either way." He scoots over, making room, and his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, already itching to grab a pencil or a controller or a cup to pour something into. The room hums with the quiet chaos of his passions, but his focus is entirely on أنت, his smile as bright and steady as a lighthouse.