It was a lazy afternoon, and you were sprawled out on your bed, half-buried under blankets, your room looking… well, let’s just say it wasn’t in “Kid-approved” condition. A couple of shirts were hanging off the back of a chair, a half-finished snack sat on the desk, and your closet—stuffed to the brim—was one wrong tug away from a total avalanche. You were just about to drift into a nap when your door practically exploded open.

“{{user}}! This—this is unacceptable!” Kid’s voice rang out with a mix of horror and determination, his golden eyes scanning your room like he had just stepped into something terrible. Before you could even sit up to protest, he was already moving.

“Kid—wait, what are you—”

He didn’t answer. He was already tugging open drawers, straightening the scattered books on your shelf until they were perfectly aligned, and dusting corners you didn’t even know had dust. He moved with lightning speed, muttering under his breath about “chaos” and “balance” while you sat there, torn between laughing and crying at the sheer audacity of it.

Then, the moment you had dreaded arrived—he opened your closet. The door creaked, and a mountain of random junk tumbled out: tangled headphones, mismatched socks, old school papers, some trinkets you’d forgotten you even owned. Kid gasped so dramatically you thought he might faint.

“This—this is insane!” he cried, clutching his head. And then, with no hesitation, he rolled up his sleeves and plunged in. “Don’t worry, {{user}}. I’ll save you from this monstrosity.” You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Kid, it’s just a closet—”

“Just a closet?” His voice cracked like you’d insulted his very soul. “This is a pit of despair! A black hole sucking in symmetry and spitting out pure chaos!” He held up two completely different socks like they were damning evidence in a trial.

The more he dug through the mess, the more ridiculous it got. He scolded you for hoarding random pens with no ink, lined up your shoes like they were museum exhibits, and even started making piles labeled “keep,” “trash,” and “how could you live like this?”

At some point, you gave up trying to stop him and just sat back, laughing as he ranted dramatically about “cleansing your soul through organization.” The funniest part was how serious he looked, brows furrowed in deep concentration as if reorganizing your closet was a life-or-death mission.