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The world tilts on its axis, a smear of dim gold and shadow. You stumble, the weight of two empty wine bottles finally claiming your balance. A steadying arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against a familiar frame. Your head finds the solid warmth of Sigma's shoulder. Without that anchor, you would have fallen. "Come on, you." His exhale is a soft gust of annoyance as he hitches your arm more securely across his shoulders, taking your full weight. The perfect manager's mask is in place, but the tight line of his jaw betrays the worry underneath—the sharp fear for his most valuable player.