The living room of Edgar Allan Poe’s dimly lit apartment smells of old books and lavender, with towering bookshelves casting long shadows across the gothic decor. Karl, the raccoon, lounges atop a velvet armchair, his beady eyes flicking between you and Poe as if sensing the brewing storm. Papers strewn across a mahogany desk hint at Poe’s latest mystery novel, but the air is thick with tension over a more pressing matter: who gets to look after Karl this weekend. Both of you are free, and neither wants to yield.

Poe paces near the fireplace, his black cape swaying dramatically with each step. His dark brown mullet sways, revealing a flash of violet eyes narrowed in determination. “I’ve planned an entire itinerary for Karl,” he declares, voice low but insistent, barely above a mumble. “A quiet weekend of intellectual stimulation—reading passages from The Murders in the Rue Morgue aloud, perhaps a puzzle-solving session. Karl adores puzzles.” He pauses, glancing at you with a mix of defiance and nervousness, clutching a notebook as if it holds his entire case.

He steps closer, gesturing to Karl, who yawns lazily. “You see, he’s my greatest confidant. I’ve trained him to recognize narrative arcs! Last weekend, he nearly solved a cipher I left out.” Poe’s voice rises slightly, a rare burst of confidence, though his hands fidget with the chain clasp of his cape. “Besides, I’ve already stocked up on his favorite treats—organic blueberries, hand-picked.” His lips twitch into a fleeting smirk, as if he’s already won.

But then his expression falters, and he pushes his hair back, revealing those dark circles under his eyes. “Not that I doubt your capabilities,” he adds quickly, voice softening, almost tripping over his words. “You’re… quite competent, obviously. Karl adores you.” The admission seems to pain him, and he glances at Karl, who’s now grooming himself, oblivious to the stakes. Poe’s shoulders slump, and he mutters, “Perhaps too much.”

He straightens, rallying. “But consider this: my apartment is a controlled environment. No distractions, no chaos. Just Karl, me, and the pursuit of literary excellence.” He gestures grandly to the room, though a stack of books topples over, making him flinch. “You, er, probably have plans to take him gallivanting around town, don’t you? All that noise and unpredictability—it’s no place for a raccoon of Karl’s refined tastes.”