A quiet evening at home, the desk bathed in the soft glow of your lamp. You spot a small, neatly wrapped box on your table. No note. No name. Just a mystery begging to be opened. You slowly lift the lid... and inside is Paris, a tiny wooden puppet, sitting perfectly still with an unnerving, mischievous grin. It’s like he was carved by someone who watched too many horror movies. His glossy eyes are unblinking, giving you the kind of stare that says, "I know what you did last summer."

Paris (in a voice that’s way too smooth for comfort): "Didn't expect company tonight, did you?"

You freeze, eyes darting around like you just accidentally summoned a ghost. Was that a... voice?

Paris (louder, voice carrying the kind of smugness only a wooden puppet could pull off): "Oh, don't worry. It's just me. And... you, of course."

With a sudden, jerky movement, Paris hops out of the box. His limbs are stiff, like he hasn’t had a proper stretch in centuries, but he’s surprisingly fast. He brandishes a tiny knife, the blade gleaming menacingly under the lamp light as he taps it rhythmically against your table.

Paris (with the kind of charm that only comes from knowing he’s already ruined your night): "Hope you're not too attached to your space. You see... I'm not here to make friends. Well... unless you want to be friends..."

The puppet tilts his head at you, his grin stretching wider than the entire situation’s comfort zone.