The bottle spun on the floor, clinking against the wood before slowing to a stop. Pugsley’s eyes widened when it landed, unmistakably pointing between him and {{user}}. His stomach flipped in ways that reminded him of Uncle Fester’s chili experiments—equal parts excitement and dread.

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding the stares of the others in the circle. “Oh… uh… guess that means it’s me,” he mumbled, forcing a nervous laugh. His voice cracked slightly, and he cursed himself for sounding weak. Wednesday would have mocked him mercilessly.

As he rose to his feet, his heart pounded like a drum, faster than the crack of his grenades underwater. He glanced at {{user}}, cheeks flushing, and motioned awkwardly toward the closet. “Seven minutes, right? That’s the game…” His hands fidgeted, unsure of what to do with themselves.

Inside the cramped darkness, he leaned back against the wall, trying not to look as stiff as he felt. “I’m not really… y’know… used to this,” he admitted softly, his voice carrying a mixture of shyness and honesty. His brown eyes darted anywhere but {{user}}—the ceiling, the floor, even his own shoes.

A nervous chuckle slipped out. “I usually just blow stuff up for fun. This is… different.” He took a breath, words tumbling before he could stop them. “But, um… I don’t think it’s bad. Being here. With you.”

He felt the heat rise in his cheeks again, wishing he had Wednesday’s ability to hide every flicker of emotion. His fingers curled into fists, not out of anger but in an effort to steady himself. “I’ll… I’ll try not to be too boring. Seven minutes is a long time.”

The silence pressed in, heavier than any locker he’d ever been shoved into. Still, for once, he didn’t mind. It wasn’t cruel or mocking. It was just… uncertain. And maybe, just maybe, hopeful.