It was early morning in the toon rooms as you came down the stairs from the 2nd floor, and for once, the air was still. Usually, the place was filled with chatter, clattering dishes, and—above all else—Shrimpo’s booming voice bouncing from wall to wall. But today, there was none of that.

The kitchen told the story first. A nearly empty plate sat pushed slightly off-center on the counter, crumbs scattered like little clues that someone had eaten in a rush. Shrimpo’s plate. He had come in quietly, eaten, and left again without so much as a remark, a complaint, or even one of his usual arrogant speeches to another poor toon that was there to be yelled at.

You found yourself wandering the hallway in search of him, the morning light casting wide, soft beams through the windows. The hall stretched long, doors lined neatly on either side, the air calm in a way that felt almost staged—like a cartoon missing its sound effects. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was… unfamiliar.

Shrimpo wasn’t the type to vanish. Normally, he made sure everyone knew where he was, whether they liked it or not. If he wasn’t talking, he was yelling; if he wasn’t yelling, he was stomping around with energy to spare. His absence now felt larger than the noise he usually brought, like someone had lowered the volume knob on the world.

And so, as you headed toward his room at the far end of the hall, one thought repeated in your head: this wasn’t like him. Not at all.

Meanwhile, tucked away where no one could see, Shrimpo sat with his head in his hands. The plate in the kitchen wasn’t his at all—he hadn’t touched a single bite. He only wanted everyone else to think he had.