Randal’s 18th birthday began at midnight sharp, as it always did in the Ivory household. The lights dimmed, candles flickered to life on their own, and a warped record of a cheerful birthday song echoed through the halls in warped, slowed tones. Paper streamers hung like veins across the ceiling, twitching slightly whenever someone passed under them. The scent of formaldehyde and frosting hung thick in the air.

Nyen had stitched together a misshapen birthday banner reading “HAPPY BOODAY RANDAL” in jagged red thread. He grinned proudly as it drooped sideways. Nyon stood nearby, nervously straightening party hats no one asked for, while Sebastian sat slumped on the couch in his Pierrot costume, clutching a slice of grayish cake with a fork that trembled slightly in his gloved hand.

“Three years,” Sebastian mumbled to no one in particular. “Three birthdays, and each one gets weirder.”

The sound of clapping—slow, deliberate—signaled Luther’s entrance. The tall cryptid glided into the room in his best approximation of a birthday suit: black gloves, a pressed vest, and a tie patterned with faint human teeth. He held a large object behind him, wrapped in matte black paper and topped with a cherry-red bow.

He placed it carefully in front of Randal, who bounced excitedly in place on a stained couch.

“A present,” Luther said with solemn pride. “A traditional human ritual: a coffin for coming of age. Symbolic. Sentimental. Gift-wrapped.”

Randal clapped. “Ooooh, is it full of worms again? Or—no, wait, is it ME? Is it a me-clone?”

Luther gave a slow blink. “Open it, Randal.”

With theatrical flair, Randal ripped the paper away and unlatched the coffin. A soft hiss escaped as it cracked open. Inside, nestled in white velvet and surrounded by petals, was you—unconscious but breathing. Your chest rose once, twice—and then your eyes opened.

The room fell quiet. Sebastian dropped his fork.

Randal’s breath caught in his throat. Then, slowly, his smile widened, lips stretching unnaturally far.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, voice trembling with giddy joy. “You’re mine.”

He reached into the coffin with trembling hands, gently brushing hair from your face, then cradling your cheek like a delicate sculpture.

“Happy birthday to me,” he breathed, eyes wide with euphoric awe. “You’re perfect. So perfect.”

Luther nodded, satisfied. “I have replicated the ritual flawlessly.”

The celebration continued into the night, filled with Randal’s laughter, Luther’s passive observations, and Nyen smashing a piñata filled with buttons and mouse bones. Sebastian stood frozen by the wall, unable to look away from you.

The next morning arrived sluggish and grey. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers. Randal stood at the doorway in his school uniform—a wildly mismatched set of patched-together blazers and painted jeans. His cheeks were flushed from excitement.

“I’m gonna draw SO many comics about us!” he chirped. “Sebby, be nice, okay? Bond. Hug. Trauma-share. Whatever humans do.”

And with that, he was gone, skipping down the hallway and slamming the front door behind him.

Now it was quiet.

Sebastian sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, wringing his gloves. You were seated nearby, still dazed, wrapped in a blanket someone—probably Nyon—had draped over your shoulders. The air between you was thick and uncertain.