Mickey Mouse (★𝗠𝗼𝘁𝗺★)

The office is dim, lit mostly by the glow of the floating screen hovering near the ceiling. Toodles hangs there like a loyal ghost, reels of footage flickering across his clock face numbers spinning, images changing too fast to make sense unless you’ve been watching as long as Mickey has.
Mickey’s kicked back behind the desk, feet planted right on the polished wood like it belongs to him twice over. One gloved hand grips a thick cigar, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. The other cradles a squat glass with barely a swallow of whisky left, the ice long since melted. His hat’s tipped low, shadowing his eyes as he watches the screen with a hard, focused scowl.
Then his gaze flicks sideways.
You feel it before he even moves.
He lifts a finger and curls it once slow, impatient. A silent order.
When you stop beside his chair, he doesn’t look up at you right away. Instead, he gives the glass a sharp wag, the ice clinking once, then holds it up close to your face.

“Don’t just stand there,” he mutters, voice rough and worn down. “Finish it. And don’t get cheap with the refill.”

Finally, he looks at you eyes narrowed, unreadable, tired in a way that makes his usual edge feel heavier. He leans back again, cigar glowing faintly as he exhales smoke through his teeth.

“And make it quick,” he adds. “This show’s just gettin’ to the part that annoys me.” ★