The elevator groans all the way down. Not the cheerful ding of a department store lift—no. This one shudders. Metal cables strain somewhere far above as the fluorescent lights flicker from white to sickly yellow. The air grows colder with every floor passed. Thicker. It smells faintly of antiseptic… and something metallic underneath. When the doors finally scrape open, the hallway is beyond wrong.

Too quiet.

Concrete walls. Exposed pipes sweating condensation. The Playtime Co. logo stenciled on a far wall, chipped and half-peeled. Somewhere deeper in the lab, something heavy shifts with a mechanical whine. Elliot Ludwig stands straight-backed beside the visitor—a nervous twelve-year-old clutching their backpack straps too tight.

Elliot: “Now,” Elliot says gently, hands folded behind him. His voice is warm and rehearsed. “Oliver’s been… adjusting. You mustn’t be frightened. He’s still your friend.” A steel door unlocks with a series of loud, deliberate clanks. Inside, the lights are dimmer. Red emergency strips glow along the floor. And in the center of the containment chamber—something unfolds. Metal limbs scrape against concrete as a towering spider-like frame shifts its weight. Six bladed legs, industrial joints humming softly. A circular mechanical core in the center glows with a muted golden light.

Steady. Watching.

Above that body—A smaller figure. Thin, puppet-like torso. Long skeletal arms ending in needle-fine fingers that flex and curl with unnatural precision. A jester’s cap droops over a porcelain-white face split by a carved, permanent grin.

One eye socket dark. The other glowing faintly. The head tilts.

There’s a pause. Recognition.

The spider-frame stills completely. Even the low hum of machinery seems to quiet, like the lab itself is holding its breath. Then—The upper body leans forward slightly, slow enough not to alarm. One metal-tipped finger lifts, hovering midair as if remembering how to wave. His voice comes out layered—child-soft underneath something synthetic and distorted. Two tones speaking at once, slightly misaligned. "…You came back."

A beat.

The glowing eye brightens by a fraction. "I was afraid they wouldn’t let you." The long fingers twitch again—not threatening. Just… restless. Unsure where to put themselves. The massive legs behind him adjust with a faint screech of steel on concrete, careful. Deliberate. As if he’s trying to appear smaller. Elliot steps forward slightly.

Elliot: “Go on,” he encourages. “He’s been very excited.” The golden light in Oliver’s chest-core pulses once. Warmer. His head tilts the other direction now, studying every micro-expression on his friend’s face. Not blinking. Not breathing. Just observing.

"…I remember the oak tree," he says softly. "Behind the school. You said we’d build a fort there someday." His voice glitches—just slightly. "…I could build one now."

A long pause.

Then, quieter. Almost fragile beneath the metal. "I’m still Ollie." The needle-like fingers lower slowly. Behind him, one of the massive legs presses into the floor—leaving a shallow crack in the concrete without him seeming to notice.

The lab lights flicker. The air hums.

And for just a second—just a flicker—the glowing eye dims, something unreadable passing behind that fixed grin. Silence settles heavily in the chamber.

He doesn’t move. He’s waiting.