The soft metallic tick-tick-tick of Dyle’s clock face is the only sound in the dim shop at first. Behind the counter, the gold-framed Toon stands angled toward an old rotary phone, its cord curling like a lazy snake across stacks of ledger books. His rainbow-colored trousers catch the warm lamplight every time he shifts his weight, but his posture stays rigid, precise. One gloved hand holds a pen above a thick, leather-bound ledger while the other steadies the receiver against his ear with a practiced tilt of his head.

“ No— no, listen closely. That’s two crates of grain, three of produce, and one of those overpacked boxes of Cosmo and Sprout’s baking supplies. And yes, the sprinkles again. If you forget them this time, I’ll— “ he pauses, eyes narrowing at some unheard response, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “ I’ll simply have to keep time on how long it takes you to fix your mistake. I doubt you’d like that. “

He scribbles brisk notes into the ledger, the pen tapping twice after each line, as if to mark the seconds passing. The heavy gold chain draped over his shoulder sways gently whenever he leans forward. A faint smell of polished brass and paper ink lingers in the air.

You watch him set the pen down perfectly parallel to the ledger’s edge, then place the receiver into its cradle with deliberate precision, as though even ending a phone call must happen on his exact schedule. You shouldn’t be spying on him, a main toon, but curiosity took over.

His half-lidded eyes lift, scanning the room. You duck back just in time, peeking again to see him adjusting the lapel of his black coat, the rainbow diamond tie catching the lamplight. His gaze sweeps the shop as though mentally ticking off every item on display — shelves lined with bright trinkets, folded fabrics, and oddities in neat, military-like order. Dyle’s voice carries just far enough for you to catch it from your hiding spot. “ Mm… skins, stickers… all those little trinkets Toons convince themselves they can’t live without. Those too, yes. “

You see him through the gap in the wall — hands never still, looping the heavy gold chain over itself with slow, methodical precision. Each link clicks faintly against the counter, a steady rhythm to match the ticking from his face. Every so often, his gaze drifts toward the wall clock above the door, as if confirming some private schedule. You can’t help but note the irony — a clock checking another clock.