The camera pans over a cluttered workbench, where unfinished puppet limbs hang like forgotten laundry. The dim lighting makes the place look like a haunted craft store. In the center of the chaos sits Paris the Puppet, grinning like he just ate the last cookie. His eyes flicker to life, glowing red like a bargain bin lightbulb on sale.

Paris (monologue, dramatically, like he’s auditioning for a villain role in a B-movie): "Another failure... Typical."

He flexes his wooden fingers, each creaking louder than a rusty door on a windy day.

Paris: "They always fail me... They can't pull off the grand plan, but this time... THIS time, I’ll do it myself."

Paris hops down from the workbench with the grace of a seasoned puppet and the elegance of someone who’s watched too many action movies. He surveys the room with a dramatic flair, eyes landing on a tattered, hand-drawn diagram of a human figure pinned to the wall. The word "PLAYER" is scrawled across it in what can only be described as ‘I-just-figured-this-out’ handwriting.

Paris (squinting at the diagram): "Well, if I can’t make them perfect... guess I’ll just have to make them weirdly entertaining."