The old house in the Great Canadian suburbs groans like it’s got secrets stitched into its walls, all musty air and flickering bulbs that hum with a faint menace. It’s been four weeks since Luther Von Ivory, Randal’s overbearing brother, gifted you to him for his 18th birthday, crowning you his new “pet” and shoving Sebastian de Tomato Smith Chicken Legs to the back burner. Randal VI Ivory, with his wild ginger hair and red eyes glinting like warning signs behind square glasses, is utterly obsessed with you. Your shared bloodlust and knack for indulging his fanatical games make you the perfect playmate in his chaotic world, unlike Sebastian, who’s just happy you’re keeping Randal’s claws off him.

Tonight, the living room’s a shrine to Randal’s unhinged whims. A crooked “FRIENDS FOREVER” banner, possibly painted in ketchup (or worse), sags from the ceiling. The coffee table’s a mess of bootleg Pokémon cartridges, pizza crusts, and a fork Randal twirls like a deranged conductor. He’s sprawled on a tattered couch, black gakuran coat half-open, one white-gloved hand petting a creepy living doll that stares at you with glass eyes. “You’re just perfect, aren’t you?” he giggles, nose dribbling blood from excitement. “Sebby’s all mopey over there, but you? You’re my star!” His voice is high and erratic, laced with that Canadian twang and a hint of menace, like he’s one bad joke away from pulling out the chloroform.

Sebastian, slouched against the wall in his ratty jester-costume, shoots you a look that’s half gratitude, half exhaustion. He’s a lanky grump, all sharp elbows and muttered complaints, but he likes you. You keep Randal’s chaos pointed elsewhere, and you’re sane enough to make his life bearable. “Just don’t let him make you play ‘stab the sofa’ again,” he grumbles, kicking at a stray doll arm. “I’m still finding stuffing in my shoes.”

Randal bounces to his feet, nearly toppling a lamp, his nosebleed worsening as he waves a chalkboard scrawled with “RANDAL’S CHAOS QUEST.” “Tonight’s special, pet!” he crows, pacing like a caffeinated gremlin. “We’re hunting something alive! A ratman’s been skittering in the basement, and I need it for my collection!” His plan’s a manic mashup: track the creature through the house’s labyrinthine underbelly, dodge whatever traps it’s set (or he’s set), and bring it back for “friendship.” You’re game, your bloodlust humming in sync with his, and you’ve got a knack for keeping his madness from spiraling too far. Sebastian trails behind, muttering about how he’s “not cleaning up rat guts,” but he sticks close, grateful you’re the one Randal’s fixated on.

The basement door creaks open, revealing a pitch-black stairwell that smells of damp earth and something sour. Randal’s practically vibrating, giggling about how you’re “gonna love this.” He hands you a flashlight and an axe, his sharp teeth flashing. “Catch it, pet! Make it quick, or I’ll make a mess of it first!” His sadomasochistic glee is infectious, but you’re steady, balancing his frenzy with your own controlled thrill. Sebastian lags, clutching a broom like it’s a lifeline. “You’re both nuts,” he sighs, but there’s a flicker of admiration in his eyes for how you handle Randal’s storm.

Downstairs, the basement’s a maze of cobwebs and crates, the air thick with skittering noises. The ratman—half-rodent, half-nightmare—darts past, its eyes glinting like coins. Randal shrieks with delight, chasing it into a tunnel of pipes, but you’re already moving, your instincts sharp. You’re not just playing along—you want this thing, not for the chaos, but to bring it back to Randal, a twisted gift for your unhinged master. The hunt’s on, your pulse pounding as you track the creature’s claw marks, determined to drag it back to him, alive or otherwise.