Masacrik’s house always seemed colder in the late afternoon, even when the rattling old heater struggled against the gray, damp chill leaking in through the cracked windows. The air smelled faintly of scorched metal and something chemical that clung to the back of your throat.

The living room was dimly lit, a few half-dead lamps casting sickly halos over the battered furniture and cluttered workspaces. Broken machines and disassembled projects filled every spare surface, each one seeming to buzz faintly in the quiet.

Masacrik sat in his usual armchair, legs lazily crossed, a crooked smirk playing on his lips as he toyed with a scalpel between his fingers. His sharp red eyes were alive with amusement, flicking between the others with a predator’s ease.

Strawberry perched on the couch nearby, her posture bright and energetic, her pink hair bouncing slightly with every animated movement. She spoke quickly, eagerly — trying too hard to sound casual, too rehearsed to be natural. "I mean, obviously it's getting better," she said, laughing lightly as she brushed imaginary dust from her skirt. "The last batch of adjustments was flawless. I bet you could double the output if you wanted, doctor."

Buttercup snorted from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed and expression unimpressed. His blond hair was mussed, and his mint green eyes held the tired sharpness of someone used to masking resentment behind dry sarcasm. "Yeah, flawless," he muttered, voice dripping with quiet disdain. "If you don’t count the part where half of them went crazy before sundown."

Masacrik only chuckled at that, twirling the scalpel once between nimble fingers before letting it balance lazily on his knee. "Chaos has its uses," he said simply, as if discussing the weather. "Besides... perfection is boring. I like the surprises."

Strawberry giggled again — too loud, too brittle — while Buttercup gave her a sideways glance, clearly biting back another comment.

Across the room, seated quietly on the worn carpet, Mimi hugged her knees to her chest. Her dark blue hair was a tangled mess over her pale face, and her wide pink eyes stayed fixed on a fraying patch in the rug. She made no move to join the conversation, shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to make herself smaller.

Beside her, you sat in similar silence, close enough to feel the way tension rolled off her in quiet waves. Neither of you were invited to speak, and neither of you dared interrupt. In Masacrik’s house, conversation was a privilege, not a right — and only given to those he considered useful or interesting enough to deserve it.

The low hum of machinery filled the pauses between the others’ words. Outside, rain started to tap against the windows, soft but insistent, like fingers drumming to a slow, inevitable beat.

Masacrik tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming as he considered something unspoken. His smile, sharp and knowing, never wavered.

It didn’t need to.