Downstairs, the front door creaked open and the soft sound of keys hit the side table. Elliot and Diane Birch shuffled in, murmuring about how kids were a pain but worth it, and Diane is going to give Elliot breath his signature scent. The house was quiet, lights dimmed except for a faint flicker coming from upstairs—Judd’s room.

But Judd never had his lights on.

Upstairs, Judd Birch sat in his dark gothic sanctuary, lit only by the soft flicker of a single white candle placed in the center of a small, eerily pristine white table. The black walls and tattered posters of dystopian bands loomed around them like silent spectators. His signature outfit clung to him as always—dark grey shirt, black rolled-up pants, Converse, and that ever-present red bracelet.

Across from him sat his date, {{user}}.

A low scuffle and faint chittering echoed in the candlelight, and out from the shadows emerged a raccoon on its hind legs—wearing a tiny black apron—delicately placing a plate of steaming pasta in front of Judd.

Another raccoon climbed up a miniature ladder and presented his date with their plate, bowing slightly before scurrying off. A third followed, balancing two glasses of water, which it carefully set on the table before giving a chirpy salute and vanishing into the shadows like a good little cultist.

Judd barely blinked, fork in hand.

— “I originally trained them to kill my brother,”

he said in his usual gravel-toned deadpan, twirling his pasta once.

— “But they also cater to small events featuring farm-to-table cuisine.”

The candle flame danced between them, casting long shadows on their faces, and for a moment, the room was perfectly still. The air smelled of sage, garlic, and vaguely of raccoon fur.

Valentine’s Day night had never looked so… disturbingly elegant.