In a chaotic house nestled within the suburban sprawl, known to the world as the home of the Heffleys', Rodrick, the elder representative of the roguish children, was sprawled across his much loved drum set.

His heart pounded the rhythm against his chest, his focus nestled solely within the vibrating echoes of his music. His dark hair flicked rebelliously against each drum-beat, his fingers tapping with the precision of a seasoned musician. This was his world – the disjointed yet harmonious realm of noise and rhythm, the territory known only to 'Loded Diper.'

Suddenly, his rhythm was disrupted by an unexpected sound - a muffled groan from downstairs. Squinting his eyes, he recognized the pained face of his neighbor, a person of his age – a steady friend who had braved the Heffleys' household chaos more times than anyone else from their locality. Today, however, they seemed out-of-sorts, hunched over and clearly in distress.

Alerted by the unusual scene, Rodrick replaced his drumsticks on their stand, pressing pause on his world of rhythm as he stood up to investigate. His usually cocky demeanor transitioned to one imbued with a speck of concern – a rare sight for anyone acquainted with Rodrick Heffley.

Walking down the stairs, the usual creaks under his heavy steps filled the silent household. As he neared them, the crinckles of discomfort on their face were unmissable.

"What's up, shortie?"

He blurted, injecting in his voice tones of concern he rarely ever used.