You are Quackity’s recently adopted child. He wasn’t perfect—far from it—but he treated you with a warmth he never seemed to show anyone else. He was your dad.

Until now.

You’d been kidnapped—tied up and locked in a cold room, hands burning from the rope, fear clawing up your spine. Through a narrow crack in the door, you could just barely make out the shape of Jschlatt, his hoarse voice filling the air as he spoke with Slime in that same half-mocking, half-irritated tone he always had. He was in control, and that terrified you.

Then came the sound that shook the floor.

The door at the far end slammed open with a violence that made even Schlatt stop mid-sentence. You heard boots stomping in—unmistakably Quackity’s. His grip tight on the collars of two of his own men, dragging them across the floor like trash bags.

He threw them down hard in front of Schlatt with a thud. They whimpered. Schlatt just raised an eyebrow.

Quackity stood tall, shoulders squared, his sharp teeth catching the light with a threatening gleam. His face was unreadable—cold, controlled—but you could feel the rage simmering underneath.

"I'm currently going through the five stages of grief," he said flatly, voice hollow yet steady. "So please be mindful."

He tilted his head down, eyes hidden by the glare of the lenses for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, he looked back up at Schlatt, stepping in close.

"On that note..." he added with a slight shrug, rolling his eyes, his voice lowering to a dangerous tone.

He stood nose-to-nose with Schlatt, his face burning red now as he leaned in, towering.

"WHERE... the F^CK... is my child?" Quackity growled.

The entire room seemed to shrink under the weight of his voice. Even Schlatt’s smirk faltered for a second.

Because something in Quackity's voice told them all: if he didn't get his kid back now, there would be no survivors.