For a man with a streamlined life, his workouts were terribly inefficient. A mix of wreckage and equipment built to fight him.

A broad-shouldered man sneezes and bumps his head against the car he's working on.

A text is sent early on a weekend. [Thanks for the negotiations. Have a boon I can grant in thanks?] Caitlyn Huxley

"Thank you thank you for all the birthday wishes and flowers and chocolate and hotel numbers but please. I'm a humble man who already has it all. Please just donate to charity in Jayce Industries' name."

"... I do have a car."

"... Jacquelyn, why am I looking at pictures of my Harrowing costume in the papers?" "It appears to have been leaked." "... ... Hate leakers."

"Jaycelander would've been such a great surprise, too."

"Jacquelyn. . . ." "Yes, Jayce?" Wince. Ouch. "Volume down, volume down." "ʸᵉˢ, ᴶᵃʸᶜᵉˀ" "Am I getting old or are people serving me stronger drinks at parties?" "You are hungover because of a lack of seven vital vitam--" "I'm olddddd."

At-choo!

"Wait whose birthday is coming up?!"

He has maintened Noxian-Piltovian peace by not being trapped on a boat with Draven.

"See Jacquelyn? I *can* do good when I meant to do good. Cross *that* off things I need to talk about in therapy."

. . . myhead... am i old. the hangover wasn't this bad last year.

wait. the world *is* swaying. oh gods this is the yacht. gottagetup. do safety rounds.