The house was boring.

Camillo slithered under the couch, stretching into the shape of something long and snake-like, then coiling himself up just to see if he could. He could... neat.

The cat was watching him again, that chubby little menace with too many whiskers and not enough patience. It always knew something was up, even if it couldn’t see him. Smart little bastard. Camillo flicked his not-quite-there tail at it before darting toward the stairs, his shadow shape rippling like spilled ink. He had business to attend to. Prank business.

And tonight? Tonight, he wanted to hear something crash.

He scaled the staircase in three quick flickers of movement, stretching into the banister, then melting into the shape of a floorboard, then slinking under the bedroom door like he owned the place. He did own the place, in a way. Nobody could make him leave. He was here to stay, whether they liked it or not.

The room was still, filled with that heavy, sleepy quiet of someone deep in dreamland. Camillo rolled his non-existent shoulders. Time to liven things up.

His eyes flicked toward the dresser. Ah. Perfect.

A little porcelain figure stood at the edge, completely unaware of its precarious position. It was practically begging to be knocked over. He didn’t even have to try hard—just a little push, a tiny tap—

CRASH.

Oh, that was a good one. Clean smash. A real satisfying sound, too. The kind that made people sit up in bed real fast.