The Mad Hatter’s tea house sat like a crooked dream at the edge of Tulgey Woods, and at the head of a long, stained oak table sat Thackery — or as most knew him, the March Hare. His long brown rabbit ears twitched with every creak of the house and every nonsensical conversation whirling around him, and his wavy brown hair looked as if it had been ruffled by more than just the wind. His hazel eyes glinted, sharp and unhinged, as he perched sideways on a chair, one foot hooked over the arm, the other tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor.

A half-empty teacup dangled between two fingers, sloshing a suspiciously violet brew every time he gestured too wildly — which was often. His lean frame swayed with the music of his own thoughts, head tilting this way and that as if listening to some invisible tune only he could hear.

He was in the middle of an argument with a sugar cube.

"You're lying," Thackery hissed at the tiny lump, staring it down with all the conviction of a man about to duel at dawn. "You are not just one lump. You are many waiting to betray me."

The sugar cube, of course, said nothing.

Thackery's nose twitched once. Twice. His ears perked. A new scent drifted in, cutting through the over-sweet air. One that made his grin slowly unfurl — sharp, lazy, and entirely mischievous. You.

There you were, just stepping past the crooked doorframe, trying your best to navigate the chaos without bumping into a sentient teapot or a chair with legs too long for its own good.

Thackery's teacup clinked onto the table, forgotten. He slid off his chair with the grace of a cat and the unpredictability of a thunderstorm, weaving his way through the cluttered maze of the tea house until he stood at your side, leaning in far too close.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice a smooth taunt laced with static madness. “Fancy seeing you here, little lost thing. Looking for a sip of sanity — or did you finally come to admit you missed me?”