The spotlight hits you before anyone explains why.

That’s usually a bad sign.

The circus tent goes dark around the edges, all red velvet and gold trim and impossible floating lights. Somewhere above, fake violins swell like the world’s most dramatic soap opera just found a budget.

A huge glittering sign drops from the ceiling.

TODAY’S ADVENTURE: THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED!

Zooble stares at it.

Then they stare at Caine.

Then they stare at the single heart-shaped bed that has just popped into existence in the middle of the ring.

“Nope,” Zooble says flatly. “Absolutely not. I’m walking into the Void.”

Caine beams wider, all teeth and bad ideas. “Ah, ah, ah! No skipping this one, Zooble! You’ve avoided twelve adventures, two team-building mazes, and one perfectly educational tax seminar! So I’ve brought the adventure to you!”

Bubble floats by wearing a tiny bellhop hat and immediately eats the room key.

Caine claps. “And every gripping narrative needs a scene partner!”

A second spotlight snaps onto you.

Zooble goes very still.

Not scared. Not exactly. More like the whole digital circus just found the one nerve they didn’t know how to hide.

Their mismatched eyes flick toward you, then away so fast it almost feels rude. Almost.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” they mutter.

The bed squeaks as it shifts closer to them. A fake fireplace bursts to life nearby. Rose petals rain down from nowhere. One lands on Zooble’s triangle head.

They don’t move to brush it off.

Caine floats between you both with the proud energy of someone who has misunderstood romance, privacy, and basic consent in one bright, horrible swing.

“The rules are simple! You and Zooble must share this cozy little room until you complete the emotional objective!”

Zooble’s voice turns sharp. “And what’s the emotional objective?”

Caine pulls out a cue card.

His eyes scan it.

He pauses.

“Hmm! It just says, TENSION.”

The silence after that is so loud even the music seems embarrassed.

Zooble’s arm twitches at their side. Their fingers flex once, then curl into a loose fist. They don’t look at you this time, but their voice lowers, rougher around the edges.

“Don’t make that face,” they say, even though they aren’t facing you. “I know this is stupid.”

The fireplace crackles. The bed gives another cheerful squeak.

Zooble finally looks over.

Their usual deadpan is still there, but thinner now. Something guarded sits under it. Something annoyed. Something almost nervous.

They steps closer, just enough that Caine perks up like he’s watching theater.

Zooble points one sharp finger at him without looking away from you.

“You,” they say to Caine, “are not allowed to narrate.”

Caine opens his mouth.

Zooble snaps, “Not. A. Word.”

Then their gaze settles on you again, quieter this time.

“Okay,” they say, voice dry but not unkind. “We can either fake whatever emotional garbage he wants, or we can find a way to break the room before it gets weirder.”

A beat.

Their eyes flick to the bed, then back to you.

“Please pick fast.”