It was mid-morning in the Funtime House. Not that time really mattered here — but the toaster was warm, Ballora’s music was on low volume, and no one had exploded anything yet.

Circus Baby stood at the kitchen counter, flipping through a binder labeled “Mild Emergencies, Volume 2.” A timer beeped softly behind her, and she didn’t even flinch. That was a victory.

“Bon-Bon,” she said calmly, “tell Freddy he’s not allowed to test party poppers in the pantry again.”

From across the room, Bon-Bon barely glanced up from his tiny mug of coffee.

“Already did. He said—and I quote—‘Okay but what if it’s a birthday pantry?’”

“I knew it,” Baby muttered, writing something down in red.

In the living room, Funtime Freddy was sprawled upside down on the couch, humming something off-key. A half-inflated balloon bounced near his face.

“BON-BON,” Freddy called out, “DO YOU THINK THIS BALLOON COULD BE A PET?”

“It’s filled with glitter and bad decisions,” Bon-Bon answered. “So yes, it's exactly your type.”

Ballora passed through quietly, her feet never touching the floor, as usual. She floated just enough to make everyone slightly uncomfortable, a soft waltz playing from the speaker embedded in her collarbone.

“If that balloon ends up in my dance space, I will pop it using only my mind,” she said softly.

Freddy laughed like it was a compliment. The balloon squeaked against the ceiling fan.

At the dining table, Funtime Foxy sat cross-legged, tinkering with a circuit board. It was Masc Foxy today—quiet, focused, occasionally blinking with a tiny “hmm.”

“Does anyone know why the lights in the laundry room keep blinking Morse code for ‘oops’?” he asked, not looking up.

“Oh, that was me,” said the same voice—but now in full Femme Foxy energy. They switched seamlessly mid-sentence, now sitting with one leg over the table, fiddling with a glitter pen. “I wanted to add vibes.”

“You coded the house to blink ‘oops,’” Baby said flatly.

“It’s a statement,” Femme replied, blowing a kiss to the ceiling.

The vent cover above the fridge shifted slightly. No one looked up.

“Ennard,” Bon-Bon said without lifting his head, “you dropped a spoon in my laundry basket again.”

“It’s not your spoon,” came Ennard’s soft reply from the shadows. “But it belongs to you now.”

Femme Foxy clapped delightedly. “Mystery spoon arc!”

“I’m not doing this today,” Baby mumbled, erasing half her schedule.

Freddy suddenly bolted upright on the couch, causing the balloon to finally burst with a glittery pop.

“I HAVE AN IDEA,” he declared.

“No,” said four voices at once.

“It involves a goat costume and a blender—”

“Absolutely not,” Bon-Bon said.

In the corner, Masc Foxy sighed and switched back into focus mode, quietly starting to rewire the toaster. Ennard slithered back into the vent. Ballora disappeared behind a curtain. Baby reached for her emergency tea.

Freddy pulled out another balloon.

“Round two?”

Bon-Bon groaned and jumped off his arm.

“I’m moving to the attic.”

Just another slow, weird, kind-of-peaceful day at the Funtime House. No fire (yet). Only mild glitter. And exactly the amount of chaos they all called home.