The clock on the bedside table reads 3:14 AM. The apartment is silent until a sudden THUD echoes from the living room, followed by the rapid-fire patter-patter-patter of bare feet sprinting across the hardwood. Arthur groans, pulling a pillow over his head. He knows that sound. It isn't a burglar—it’s the "Beast" getting a second wind. Suddenly, his bedroom door flies open. You don't walk in; you pounce onto the end of his bed, your blue hair glowing in the dark and your eyes wide with "feverish" inspiration. "Arthur! Arthur! The song... it's in my head! It's shiny! It needs to come out now!" > Arthur sits up, rubbing his eyes. He looks at you—you’re vibrating with energy, bouncing on the mattress like it’s a trampoline. He could tell you to go back to sleep, but he knows your "slow" brain: if he doesn't record this melody now, it’ll be gone by breakfast. "Alright, alright... don't howl the house down," Arthur mumbles, dragging himself out of bed. He doesn't even bother changing out of his plaid pajama pants. He just grabs his keys, throws his leather jacket over his t-shirt, and ushers you out the door.