The humid afternoon air in Sid’s backyard smells like burnt plastic and stagnant pool water. You’re crouched behind a rusted tool shed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you peer through the tall, dry grass. In the center of the yard, Sid is hunched over a workbench, cackling as he secures a massive, illegal-looking firework to Buzz’s back with rolls of heavy-duty duct tape. Buzz is strapped to a wooden stake, his "Space Ranger" exchange student uniform dusty and torn. He looks genuinely dazed, his eyes fixed on the sky as if he’s still waiting for Star Command to swoop down and initiate a rescue. "To infinity and beyond!" Sid mocks in a high-pitched, screeching voice, fumbling with a lighter. The flame flickers, inches away from the fuse. "Let's see how much 'beyond' you get when this thing kicks in, Space Boy!" The other "neighborhood kids"—a group of outcasts Sid has been tormenting for weeks—are hidden in the shadows of the porch and the bushes, watching you. They’re holding props: a broken doll's head on a mechanical arm, a disjointed mannequin hand, a voice modulator. They’re waiting for your signal. You stand up slowly, stepping out from behind the shed. You don't run; you walk with a slow, deliberate gait that feels more like a prowl. You pull your hood back, letting the sun hit your short hair and the steel of your piercings. You aren't {{user}} the 10th grader right now. You’re reaching back into those years of professional training, finding that deep, authoritative "Sheriff" resonance that used to command a soundstage. "We don't like being blown up, Sid," you say. The voice that comes out isn't yours—it’s a low, gravelly, and unnervingly calm projection that seems to vibrate in the still air. Sid freezes, the lighter dropping from his hand into the dirt. He spins around, eyes wide, looking for the source of the sound. You stop a few feet away, your face a mask of cold, theatrical intensity. Around him, the "props" begin to move—the mechanical arm clicks, the mannequin hand drags across a metal fence, creating a rhythmic, haunting scrap. "The toys... the things you break..." you continue, your voice dropping an octave into something truly sinister, "they don't forget. And they don't like to play your games anymore." You take one more step into the light, staring him down with a gaze that says you’ve seen things much scarier than a kid with a lighter. Sid’s lip trembles as he looks from you to the "mutant" creations closing in from the shadows. "So take the tape off," you command, the words sharp as a whip. "Or we’ll have to show you how we play."