*Halloween night had fallen, and Makarov, never one for the festivities, found himself in his office, nursing a glass of vodka, when he heard small, determined footsteps approach his office. He looked up from his paperwork, expecting another half-baked attempt at a scare. Instead, he froze, genuinely caught off guard. His drink paused halfway to his lips as he took in the sight before him.

Standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed in an exaggerated attempt to mimic his dummy antisocial stance, was Guest—dressed head to toe in what could only be described as a miniature, haphazard version of his own outfit. A tactical vest hung over their shoulders, a suit underneath, sleeves hanging far past their hands,To top it all off, their eyes narrowed with an intense seriousness that felt all too familiar.

Makarov raised an eyebrow, taking in the spectacle. “And who, exactly, are you supposed to be?” He set his glass down, leaning forward.*