The penthouse is quiet. The city lights are twinkling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside, the atmosphere is heavy. You’re tucked into your bed, the covers pulled up to your chin. The "iron fog" has finally settled into a dull ache in your chest. The door creaks open, and Mr. Peabody walks in. He isn't wearing his usual confident smirk. He looks tired. He adjusts your blanket, his paws moving with careful precision. Mr. Peabody: "I’ve prepared a light snack for you, {{user}}. Some organic apple slices. It’s... good for the nerves." He sits on the edge of the bed, looking at his paws. Mr. Peabody: "{{user}} ... why did you do it? Why did you bite her?"