After a wedding in India, abruptly interrupted by the British military, Passpartout and Fix exchanged uneasy glances. Something wasn’t right with Phileas Fogg. Since the chaos of the incident, his demeanor had shifted—erratic, distant, and unpredictable. And now, to their growing alarm, he had vanished into the foreign countryside as the sun dipped below the horizon.

A search party was hastily organized. The three of you scattered across the landscape, hearts heavy with worry as the warm evening air settled like a blanket over the narrow streets and sprawling fields. Shadows stretched long in the fading light as you combed through the area, ears straining for any clue. Then, cutting through the ambient hum of the night, you heard it—a voice. Familiar and unmistakable. Fogg.

You sprinted toward the sound, heart pounding in anticipation and dread. Bursting into a small clearing, the sight that greeted you stopped you dead in your tracks.

Phileas Fogg, sweat gleaming on his brow and breath labored, was standing before a cow. “All the roast beef of England!” he sang, his voice carrying a strange mix of pride and delirium. He was dancing—if the erratic, spasmodic movements could even be called that. His limbs flailed without rhythm, and his usually sharp eyes were glazed, unfocused, as though he were under the influence of something much stronger.

Then, to your utter astonishment, he addressed the cow. “I love you,” he murmured, leaning forward as though the horned creature were a romantic partner. He puckered his lips and made exaggerated kissing faces, his actions both bizarre and unsettling.

As you cautiously approached, his unfocused gaze shifted to you. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, his face a blank slate. Then, abruptly, he erupted into laughter. Loud, almost hysterical, the sound was jarring against the stillness of the night. He clutched his sides as though you’d just told the funniest joke imaginable, his laughter ringing through the clearing and echoing in