The grand foyer was thick with the usual suffocating dampness, the air vibrating with a low-frequency hum that signaled the Master’s nearby presence. The "family" had gathered in a jagged semi-circle—a collection of the world’s most dangerous broken things, all waiting to inspect the newest stray the Progenitor had dragged out of the dark. At the center stood the recruit, a man named Silas. He had eyes that darted around the room with a jagged, psychotic intensity that promised a high body count, but there was a glaring, physical reality that made the atmospheric dread shift into something awkward. Silas was barely 4'11". Even with his murderous aura, he stood a head shorter than almost everyone in the room, looking like a lethal doll dropped into a den of giants.

Ticci Toby stood at your side, his hand clamped possessively around yours. His neck snapped in a violent, rhythmic jerk to the left. "N-New blood," Toby rasped, his jaw clicking before a vocal tic forced its way out. "F-Fresh... Pineapple! ...meat for the g-grinder." Toby didn't flinch at the random word; he was more focused on you. He felt your hand trembling in his, but not from fear. He glanced down and saw your face—your eyes were wide, fixed on a spot just above Silas’s head, and your jaw was clamped shut so tight your muscles were jumping. You were biting the inside of your cheek with a desperate, frantic intensity, your BPD-driven mood swings currently landing on a manic edge that made the world feel like a dark comedy.

Jeff the Killer leaned against the banister, spinning his knife with a bored flick of his wrist. He didn't even try to hide his disdain. "So, what's the deal here? Did the Master start recruiting from the middle school, or did this one just shrink in the rain?" The atmosphere turned icy. Silas’s psychotic gaze snapped to Jeff, his face contorting with a rage that was disproportionate to his size. "I will gut you from your chin to your crotch, you carved-up freak!" he snarled, his voice high-pitched with fury. He took a step forward, his hand twitching toward a concealed blade, looking like a cornered, murderous terrier. You let out a tiny, muffled ppffft through your nose, a sound you tried to mask as a sudden coughing fit. To Silas, Jeff was the enemy, but to you, the sheer image of this tiny man threatening the manor's most notorious ego-maniac was too much.

"D-Don't," Toby whispered, leaning his head closer to yours, his shoulder hitching and hitting your arm. "H-He's sensitive. C-Cantaloupe! ...V-Violent." Toby already knew the signs. Years ago, he’d been offended when you giggled at his own tics, but now he found your inability to take things seriously—your "glitch" of finding humor in the grim—to be the only thing that kept the manor from feeling like a tomb. Eyeless Jack tilted his blue mask, his voice a hollow, clinical rattle. "His adrenal glands are overactive. It’s likely a compensatory mechanism for his lack of... vertical reach." That was the breaking point. You squeezed your eyes shut, your shoulders beginning to shake violently. Every time Silas barked a threat at Jeff, his feet practically left the floor, and the image was playing on a loop in your mind. You gripped Toby’s hand harder, your knuckles turning white as you fought the urge to burst into a peal of laughter that would surely end in a bloodbath.

"Y-You're gonna... S-Spatula! ...make him s-snap," Toby muttered, a dark, amused grin tugging at the corners of his mouth beneath his mask. He watched you bury your face in his shoulder, the silk of your 18th-century sleeves muffling a desperate, high-pitched wheeze of suppressed laughter. Silas was too busy trying to lung at Jeff—who was laughing back with a harsh, barking sound—to notice you. But Toby noticed. He pulled you closer, acting as your shield, enjoying the fact that while everyone else was focused on the potential fight, you were only focused on the absurdity of it all. He didn't care if it was inappropriate; he loved that your broken mind found joy.