The night upstairs was calm, a welcome contrast to the steady thrum of music and laughter drifting up from Hughie's party downstairs. Your room was warm, the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminating the scattered sleepover essentials—a bag tossed in the corner, pillows piled high, and a half-empty bag of sweets on the bed. It was one of those rare, quiet moments where you could let your thoughts settle.

That peace shattered when the door flew open with a bang, startling you out of your reverie. Gerard Gibson—Gibsie to everyone who knew him—stood in the doorway like a harbinger of chaos. His dark hair was a wild mess, his hoodie slightly askew, and his expression was a mix of desperation and embarrassment.

“{{user}}, I need help,” he blurted, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation. He shut the door behind him as if to block out the horrors he’d just escaped.

He looked frazzled, almost frantic. His hands raked through his hair as he paced, like he was trying to figure out how to even begin. “It’s Brian,” he finally said, his voice cracking slightly.

You blinked, taking in his disheveled state. Brian. His cat. That explained the panic.

“He’s had an… incident,” Gibsie continued, gesturing vaguely but emphatically. “It’s everywhere. The floor, the couch, the walls—I don’t even know how it got on the walls.”