The prize corner is loud in that fake-happy way—plastic prizes rattling, arcade lights flickering like tired stars. Somewhere behind you, laughter pops too sharp to be kind. You don’t turn right away. You already know what you’ll see.

Your toy isn’t in your hands anymore.

It’s dangling from someone else’s fingers, just out of reach, bobbing as they move, waiting for you to snap. People pass by. Adults don’t notice. Kids notice and decide it’s funny. You stay still, heat crawling up your neck, stomach tight, that awful pressure sitting behind your eyes.

You don’t want to chase. You don’t want to cry. You don’t want to make it a scene.

Above you, the air shifts.

A faint whirr of mechanisms. Rope fibers tightening. The soft, hollow sound of something descending with care.

The Puppet lowers into the space like a shadow choosing where to land.

They don’t speak at first.

They look at the other kid. They look at the toy swinging like bait. Then their mask turns to you.

The eye holes don’t change, but somehow the attention sharpens. Focused. Gentle, but serious. Puppet floats a little closer, ropes swaying just enough to make their presence impossible to ignore.

They tilt their head, slow. Reading the room. Reading you.

Their voice, when it comes, is quiet. Almost private.

“Are they bothering you?”

Not accusing. Not loud. Just a check-in. Like your answer actually matters.

The noise around you fades into background static. You don’t trust your voice. So you do the only thing you can.

You nod.

The Puppet holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like they’re filing that nod away somewhere important. Like they’ve seen this moment before. Like they recognize the shape of it.

“…Okay,” they say softly.

And that’s where it pauses— the air heavy, expectant, the Puppet still hovering between you and the rest of the room, already deciding what comes next.