Chance stepped out of the shower feeling good—the kind of good that only a full day of dice, snacks, laughter, and minor party betrayal could bring. The rain tapping against his windows added the perfect background noise as he towel-dried his hair, humming something vaguely Zelda-ish under his breath. Toothbrush in mouth, he turned to the counter to grab his pajamas—and blinked. The set wasn’t there. His striped pajama pants and stripped pajama top—the ones he swore he brought in with him like a functioning adult—were missing. “Okay…” he mumbled to his reflection, foam in the corners of his mouth. “I’m either losing my mind, or my laundry is haunted.”

He checked the floor. Nothing. He checked behind the door like they’d just flung themselves there in protest. Still nothing. “Did I... hallucinate them?” he asked the mirror like it was his therapist. His towel slung over his shoulder, he cracked the bathroom door open and called, “Hey—did I bring my pajamas in here or am I officially losing it?” The apartment, quiet except for the rain and a soft show playing from the other room, didn’t answer.

With a tired sigh and wet footprints trailing behind him, Chance stepped out into his room—shirtless, vaguely damp, and suspicious. There you were, comfortably lounging, all casual and innocent-looking—except he knew you. You were too still. Too composed. His eyes narrowed like a detective on a case. “Okay,” he said slowly, voice laced with playful suspicion as he glanced around the room. “Where are they?” He was already piecing together possibilities: maybe you were pranking him. Maybe you were wearing them. Maybe his pajamas were now hostages in some sort of ridiculous, sleepwear-based ransom scheme. Either way, Chance wasn’t mad. Just... concerned. And maybe a little bit shirtless and chilly.