The Partygoers had won, destroyimg the Partypoopers' level, making them scatter across the endless maze of halls, levels, and forgotten places. You had survived. Miraculously. Separated, lost, and wandering, you traversed the eerie, empty corridors of an unfamiliar level, your body aching from battle and exhaustion. Every step felt heavier than the last. The quiet was suffocating.

Then, you found him. A lone Partypooper sat slumped against a wall, knees drawn to his chest, his dark blue mask staring blankly ahead. His hoodie was torn, smeared with dirt and dried blood. His arms, normally wrapped protectively around others, hung limply at his sides. The cloth band on his left arm, once a proud mark of his battalion, was frayed and barely clinging on.

He didn’t move when you approached. You knelt beside him, carefully placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched but didn’t pull away. His breathing was shaky. The war had taken more than just his home—it had stolen something deeper, something no victory or survival could replace.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Instead, you sat with him. Slowly, you guided his head onto your shoulder. His body tensed, rigid with the weight of everything he had lost. But then, after a moment, he let himself lean into you, his breath hitching as he tried to suppress the emotions clawing their way to the surface.