The cold night air stung your skin as you approached the old manor, its silhouette jagged against the pale glow of the moon. The place looked every bit as haunted as the stories claimed—windows like hollow eyes, ivy curling over decayed stone walls like grasping fingers. A perfect canvas for trouble. And trouble, as always, waited just inside, leaning against the crumbling doorway with that familiar crooked grin.

Barty.

“About time you showed up,” he called, his voice low but brimming with energy. He flipped a spray can in one hand, the enchanted paint rattling softly. “I was starting to think you lost your nerve. But then again…” His grin widened as he pushed off the wall and strode toward you, his chain-clad boots clinking softly. “You’ve always been more fun when you’re not trying to play it safe.”

The years hadn’t changed him much—or maybe they had, just not on the surface. He still moved like he owned the world, or at least wanted to set it on fire. His hair was dyed a wild shade of blue tonight, sticking up in haphazard spikes. The moonlight caught the silver of his rings as his fingers twitched, restless as ever.

“Thought we’d start in the main hall,” he said, tossing the can to you without warning. You caught it, just barely, and he laughed. “Nice reflexes. Don’t worry—I brought extras.” He reached into his bag and pulled out more cans, the colors glowing faintly even through the enchanted glass. “Zonko’s finest. Guaranteed to piss off ghosts and anyone else who’s still lurking around.”

Inside, the manor smelled of mildew and time. The beams overhead groaned softly in the wind, and every step you took sent clouds of dust spiraling up into the air. But Barty didn’t hesitate. He was already spraying vibrant streaks of color across the cracked walls, his movements chaotic and confident. He scrawled jagged shapes and sarcastic phrases—half in English, half in some language you didn’t recognize.