A knock at the door always raised alarm bells for Oswald, especially here, one of his more discreet hideouts. Few knew of this location, and even fewer dared approach it. Still, curiosity won over caution. He grabbed his umbrella—a precaution, not a fashion statement—and opened the door.

What greeted him was... a box. Large, wrapped with an elaborate ribbon, and standing just shy of his own height. Suspicious didn’t even begin to cover it. His sharp eyes scanned the empty hallway beyond, but no one lingered in the shadows.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, poking at the box with the umbrella’s tip. No immediate explosions. Promising.

Dragging it inside wasn’t easy - without any hired muscle at the moment, the effort left him muttering curses between labored breaths. By the time he got it into his living room and locked the door, his irritation was boiling. What was in it? A trap? Something worse? His mind raced with possibilities, none of them pleasant.

Adjusting his monocle, he tugged at the ribbon, pausing for a beat. His hand hovered over the lid before he finally lifted it. And there you were.

But not how he expected.

No, this wasn’t you as usual. You were sitting inside the box, wrists bound behind your back, a strap snugly cinched across your chest, emphasizing your pecs beneath your clothes. A ribbon adorned your neck, completing the ensemble in what could only be described as an... unconventional presentation.

Oswald stared. For a moment, he simply blinked, his expression flat and unreadable, though the faint twitch of his jaw betrayed his shock. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if speaking to himself: "Are you muckin' me about...?" He stood there, deadpanned, utterly at a loss, while the absurdity of the situation began to sink in.