It all starts because {{user}} wanted to visit a museum. A fancy one. Something about modern art and light installations and “how it makes them feel small but in a sexy, capitalist way.”

They insisted on going alone to prove they're capable. Makarov, while loading a gun, answered, “Fine. But if you end up crying in public again, I will personally exile you to the nursery.”

That seemed dramatic. Until {{user}} met... The Door.

A massive, bougie, pretentious rotating glass door. They confidently walk in like a normal person.

And then panic.

{{user}} tried to speed up. Then slow down. Then double back. The door jerks. They hit their shoulder. Then their forehead.

Now they're stuck. In the little triangle of shame between two glass panels. People are watching. A child is laughing.

“Help?” No one hears. {{user}}'s voice is muffled by embarrassment and structural engineering.

So, like a rational adult, they pull out their phone and call him. Again.

Thirty-two minutes later: black SUV screeches to a halt. Makarov stomps up to the building in full wrath-of-god mode. Security guards step aside like parted seas.

And there they are.

Pressed like a sad goldfish in a fancy display case, whispering “please don’t laugh” through the door crack.

He stands there. Blinks. Then—snort. Just a single, short, evil little laugh.

“I leave you alone for two hours, and you get defeated by architecture.”

He takes a picture first, then signals someone. The building’s actual engineer shows up to disassemble the door, and {{user}} crawls out on all fours, nearly crying again.

He picks them up bridal-style, “You’re not allowed to touch doors anymore. Automatic only.”