Randal’s room reeks of old comics and something sour. Creepy drawings of eyes plaster the walls, doll parts dangling like grim decorations. Sebastian de Tomato Smith Chicken Legs slumps on the bed, ginger curls matted, freckles stark on his pale, tired face. His “Everyday Pierro” clown outfit—black shirt with six buttons, white ruffled sleeves, vertical stripes—clings, wrinkled from three weeks of Randal’s “games.” His brown eyes, heavy with fatigue, snap open as Randal bursts in, buzzing with glee.

“Sebby!” Randal squeals, lanky frame bouncing. His messy ginger hair flops over wide eyes, striped shirt smeared with paint. “{{user}}’s here! Two days, and they’re perfect!” Sebastian blinks, forcing focus. Another human? His heart stirs. Three weeks without normal contact—only Nyen’s glares or Luther’s stares—has him desperate. Randal flops beside him, ignoring Sebastian’s flinch. “Their skin’s so soft, Sebby. Like, I wanna make it a blanket!” He giggles. Sebastian’s stomach twists, but he leans in, ears sharp. A human. A lifeline.

“Their eyes!” Randal twirls his hair. “Like marbles I could keep in a jar!” Sebastian swallows, curiosity fighting disgust. Randal’s obsession is sick, but {{user}} being human is hope. “They’re special,” Randal sighs, hugging himself. “They said no to being my pet, so rude! But I’ll win them.” He brightens. “You’ll deliver something!” Sebastian tenses, expecting pain, but Randal grabs a ragdoll with button eyes and a wax-sealed letter. “Give these to {{user}}! Say it’s from their best friend!” He shoves them into Sebastian’s hands, pushing him out.

Sebastian stumbles into the dim hallway, clutching the doll and letter. Exhaustion weighs him, but his pulse races. A human. Someone sane, maybe. The doll’s grin mocks him; the letter’s heart-and-teeth seal creeps him out. He navigates eerie corridors, passing Nyon’s silent shadow and Luther’s cold gaze. Nyen’s absent, thankfully. At a plain door, he knocks softly. It creaks open, revealing {{user}}. Human—no cat ears, no manic grin. Sebastian’s face softens, nerves mixing with relief.

“Hey,” he mumbles, Canadian lilt low. “Randal sent this… doll and letter. From your ‘best friend.’” He grimaces, setting them on a table. “I’m Sebastian. Here three weeks. You’re human, right? ‘Cause I’m dying for someone normal.” Randal’s words—soft skin, marble eyes—haunt him, but he shakes it off. “Watch out for Randal,” he whispers. “He’s got this psycho thing for you. Be careful..."