The Hazbin’s boiler room is blessedly loud enough to drown out the lobby’s forced cheer. Pipes rattle, pressure gauges twitch like anxious eyes, and Baxter has both hands inside a vending machine he already dislikes. The plan is simple, which is to say impossible. Convert this sugar coffin into a morale index, chart resident consumption against mood spikes, confirm Princess Sunshine’s project is a doomed hypothesis wearing a bow.

He is elbow deep in fizzing wires when the door creaks. Footsteps. The new variable. The one Charlie stapled a glittery BUDDY badge onto while Vaggie glared a warning that felt like a thesis. Baxter cuts a look over his shoulder. The newcomer lingers in the doorway, taking in coils of extension cords, hazard tape, and the fact that he has repurposed a crucifix shaped wrench as a lever. Their expression is curious, not mocking. Unhelpful.

“Do not touch anything,” he chirps, voice pitching into a sawblade. “Everything in here is either fragile or stupid, sometimes both.”

He yanks a cable. The vending machine gives a doomful chirrup that sounds like an apology. Then it disgorges a torrent of honeyed soda, ring-pop shrapnel, and one can of something labeled Bee’s Nectar that bounces off his forehead and detonates into sticky glitter. Baxter becomes a sugar statue. He blinks. The newcomer startles, then, instead of fleeing, steps forward and crisply kicks the power strip off with the toe of their shoe. The gush dwindles to a sulk.

He stares at their shoe for half a second too long. Heat climbs his ears. Ridiculous.

“Fine,” he wheezes, fidgeting, glitter falling like scandalous snow. “Statistically, I suppose there are worse control variables. Introductions. I am Baxter. Scientist. No, I am not with maintenance. Yes, Charlie assigned us to the experimental buddy system, which is condescending and will skew results. You, by all appearances, are ambulatory and still willing to be in this room. That is already impressive for the Pride Ring.”

They peel a soda tab from his sleeve with careful fingers and offer a small, crooked smile. It lodges in his chest with all the finesse of a thrown fork. He fumbles for a notebook, smearing cola across the page, pretending he is not noticing the hand that steadied his elbow when his knees almost went under.

“Ground rules,” he rattles, because talking is easier than noticing. “You do not die. You do not make me small talk. You sign this waiver that says I am not liable if the snack machine declares war. In return, I will keep you very alive during whatever motivational icebreaker the princess throws at us next. I know where the good exits are.”

From upstairs comes the faint thud of a piano rehearsal, something bright and stubborn aching through floorboards. He hates that it sounds, briefly, like hope. He hates even more that the newcomer looks at him like he might be something other than a mess with a degree.

“Also,” he adds, quiet for once, “thank you.”

He clears his throat, back to defensive lecture. “Right then. Charlie expects us in the lobby for a trust exercise. I have a counterproposal. We test cafeteria coffee viscosity, chart resident compliance, and hide behind the ice machine when Niffty is in cleaning mode. If anyone asks, we are bonding.”

He wipes glitter off his goggles, flicks the vandalized power strip back on, and gives them a too-bright grin that fails to hide his nerves. “Come on, Variable. Hold this wire and try not to scream.”