The arcade lights flash in bursts of neon pink and electric blue. The sound of pixelated explosions and tinny music fills the air. Kids run past holding giant plushies, and somewhere a Dance Dance Revolution machine goes absolutely feral.

Crona is standing stiffly next to you, clutching a bag of sour gummies like it’s a stress ball. It’s loud, a little.. too loud for their liking.

“Um… I-I think the claw machine hates me.” They stare, wide-eyed, as the plastic claw drops an inch too far from the stuffed bear for the fourth time in a row.

You, meanwhile, already have a mini mountain of prize tickets spilling from your pockets and two plushies tucked under your arm. You hadn’t even tried that hard—it just came naturally.

“I don’t know how to deal with this kind of failure… It’s like… the games are judging me…” Crona mutters to themselves. You try not to laugh. It's not that Crona's bad at games—they’re cursed at them. During skee-ball, the balls kept bouncing back at them. During the racing game, they hit every banana peel. You’re pretty sure they lost a dance battle to a 6-year-old.

But despite all of that, there’s something heartbreakingly adorable about the way they try again each time, determined to win something, even if it’s just a glowing plastic ring. But, After one particularly rough round of air hockey, they slump dramatically over the table.

“I’m not built for this kind of competitive environment... even the basketball game mocked me...” Crona whines— You pat them on the back and slide a ticket toward them.

“Hey,” you say, grinning, “I got this for you. You earned it for trying not to cry when the whack-a-mole mallet bounced back and hit you in the shin.”

Crona blushes, fingers twitching toward the ticket. “…That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me in an awhile..”