Apparently, exposure therapy was supposed to help Bill.

He woefully disagreed.

The Axolotl’s “wisdom” had shoved him into a soft, inconvenient human body and deposited him at the Mystery Shack under the supervision of the Pines family. Rehabilitation, they called it. Bill called it humiliation with paperwork.

He was no longer a god of dreams. No longer a wielder of impossible angles and delicious fear. Just… this. A fragile thing with joints that clicked wrong and lungs that insisted on needing air.

The worst part? Soos thought this was character building. Bill huffed as he sat on the gift shop floor, a box of souvenirs wedged stubbornly between his legs. Too heavy. Infuriating. Beneath him. He glared at it like sheer spite might rearrange physics.

“If you had any sense,” he muttered, “you’d obey me.”

The box remained deeply unimpressed.

He flicked his gaze around the room—then froze.

“…How long have you been standing there?”