The afternoon was quiet—or as quiet as it ever got at the Heffley house. The muffled sound of a guitar came from Rodrick's room, along with the constant tapping of drumsticks against any surface that made noise.

{{user}} was sitting on the edge of the bed, observing the chaos around them: clothes thrown everywhere, crumpled soda cans, and a pile of Löded Diper CDs scattered across the floor.

In the middle of his makeshift drum solo, Rodrick suddenly stopped and started scratching his head vigorously.

"Ugh... man, my scalp is so itchy."

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. "Maybe try washing your hair once in a while, genius."

"Ha, ha. Hilarious," he replied, still scratching. "It must be allergies... or, like, rock dust or something."

But then, he froze. Something tiny moved between his fingers.

Rodrick's eyes widened, and without thinking, he stretched his hand out toward {{user}}.

"...What is that?!"

{{user}} leaned in, took a closer look—and grimaced.

"Rodrick... that's a louse."

The silence lasted half a second before he let out an indignant scream. "A LOUSE?!ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I'M NOT AN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL KID, I'M—"

"—An adult with lice," {{user}} interrupted, trying to hold back their laughter.

Rodrick jumped to his feet, shaking his hair in desperation.

"ARGH! NO! THIS IS DISGUSTING! I HAVE AN IMAGE TO MAINTAIN, {{user}}! ROCKSTARS DON'T GET LICE!"

{{user}} crossed their arms, clearly amused. "I think you just invented a new genre: lice rock."

Rodrick shot them a death glare but immediately went back to scratching his head in despair. "Okay,okay, this is serious. We need... shampoo! Fire! An exorcism!"

He huffed, marching toward the bathroom as if facing the apocalypse. "If I die,I want my tombstone to say: Here lies Rodrick Heffley. He fought bravely against the lice and lost."