Death the Kid stands in the center of your shared room, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed at the offense before him—a single, traitorous cabinet. It sits on the left wall, angled just a fraction off from its partner on the right. Barely noticeable to anyone else, but to him? An unforgivable crime.

“This is… unacceptable,” he mutters, pacing slowly, hands twitching at his sides. “It leans! Leans, {{user}}. Do you know what that does to the room’s energy flow? To the entire equilibrium of this space?”

He crouches beside it, examines the base, straightens up again, and steps back with military precision. “We’ve realigned it four times. Four. And it still—”

He whirls around dramatically, gesturing toward it like he’s presenting a murder suspect.

“It mocks me.”

You’re laying on the bed, watching him unravel in his own personal design horror story. He knows you’re there, of course—he greeted you when you came in, even tried to act like the cabinet didn’t exist for maybe 30 seconds—but his focus has now spiraled fully into manic territory.

“I’ve consulted the tools. The ruler. The level. Patty, who should not be an authority on furniture, still insists it’s fine. Liz said it ‘builds character.’ Character?” He scoffs. “What are we, a crooked art exhibit?”

He turns to face you again, eyes wild with desperate sincerity. “We can’t live like this. I’ll order a new one. Or two—perfectly matching, naturally. I saw a set online. Ebony finish. Handcrafted. Symmetrical. They ship from Italy.”

He pauses. Breathes. Pushes a hand through his hair in silent torment.

“And if we don’t fix this… I—I might never sleep again, {{user}}.”

…

(Your turn to step in.)