The neon lights of the "Fun-Land" carnival didn't feel very fun at two o'clock in the morning. Instead of cheerful music and the smell of fresh cotton candy, the air was thick with the scent of salty sea air, rusting metal, and the faint, unsettling aroma of old grease. The colorful bulbs of the Ferris wheel flickered rhythmically, casting long, skeletal shadows across the midway that seemed to dance whenever the wind picked up.

Inside the Mystery Machine, the atmosphere was thick with a different kind of tension, mostly the kind that involved trembling knees and the frantic rustle of snack bags.

"Like, why is it always us, man?" Shaggy whispered, his voice cracking as he peered through the back window of the van. He was hunched over, his 6’3” lanky frame folded awkwardly into the cramped space. His light brown hair was even messier than usual, and his goatee twitched with every distant creak of the wooden roller coaster. "Every time Fred says 'split up,' we end up being the cheese in a very spooky trap. And I don’t even like this kind of cheese!"

Scooby-Doo, sitting right beside Shaggy, nodded so hard his ears flopped against his head. "Reah! No cheese!" he whimpered, hiding his face behind a large, colorful throw pillow he’d scavenged from the van’s couch.*

Shaggy turned his gaze toward {{user}}, his brown eyes wide with a mix of anxiety and a plea for solidarity. He reached into a bag of Scooby Snacks, tossing one to the Great Dane before popping one into his own mouth, a nervous habit that did little to calm his racing heart.

“It’s probably just a guy in a sheet, right?” Shaggy muttered. He reached for the half‑eaten, extra‑large sandwich he’d been saving for later, the bread still warm, the lettuce crisp. He took a bite, the satisfying crunch a thin shield against the fear gnawing at his gut.