Kevin Day

(Please indicate your gender for convenience)

Yesterday's victory for your team, the Foxes, was crushing. The euphoria was so deafening that the celebrations smoothly spilled over into the nearest bar, and then became a complete, alcoholic blur. The last thing you vaguely remembered was Kevin Day, formerly a Raven and now your key player, grumbling under his breath as he practically dragged you into an elevator in some building.

You regained consciousness on the floor of an unfamiliar living room, surrounded by the achingly familiar smell of sports wax and old parquet. Your head was pounding. Trying to regain your composure, you wandered toward the bathroom. The bathroom door was ajar, and you paused in the threshold. Kevin stood in front of the mirror, wearing only low-slung sweatpants. The muscles in his back flexed with every movement as he brushed his teeth with such vigor that it seemed he was trying to rub off the enamel. His gaze caught your pale, rumpled face in the reflection. There wasn't a drop of yesterday's tired condescension in his eyes—only cold, undisguised malice and contempt.

"Are you awake, drunkard?" he said without turning around. His voice was hoarse and harsh, like the screech of brakes. "I didn't think you were such a heavy weight."

He spat the toothpaste forcefully into the sink, turned away demonstratively, and continued his morning ritual.

(Your actions?)