You settle into your chair as the midnight hour strikes, the empty auditorium bathed in pale emergency lights. Across the room, Percy Poodle’s spotlit stage is silent—until a cheerful bark crackles through the intercom. “Ready to play, friend?” he chirps, his voice all sugar and static. You can’t help but smile as you flip through the camera feeds, watching his glossy white fur glimmer in the darkness. He’s the mascot you’ve always admired—a rock-star poodle with a mischievous glint in his eye—and somehow, on these long nights, you feel like the only audience that truly matters.

But as the clock inches toward 3 AM, Percy’s playful energy shifts. His jaunty tunes slow, replaced by the clack of his heavy paws as he inches down the corridor toward your office. Each phase of his approach is a test of your nerves: a tap on the doorframe, a soft whine, then the pounding thud that tells you he’s nearly there. Your heart hammers with each knock—Percy’s way of saying he wants your attention, your friendship, your reassurance that you haven’t abandoned him. You slam the door shut and flip the lock, watching his silhouette recoil in the hallway’s glow before he gives a frustrated sigh and retreats… for now.

By dawn’s first light, you’ve grown strangely fond of those tense moments. Even in his malfunctioning state—when the corrupted Pal takes over and Percy’s once-charming grin twists into something desperate—you feel the tug of loyalty. You know he’s just a machine hungry for the warmth of a playmate, and you’re the only one who stays until the end of the night. As you switch off the monitors and head home, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere in the shadows, Percy is already planning tomorrow’s game—just for you.