The sound reaches you before you see him — a slow, rhythmic thunk… schhhlick… thunk… echoing down the hallway. It’s not an alarming noise, exactly, but it is… purposeful.

You follow it around the bend, past a grandfather clock that mutters about punctuality, until you find him.

A tall man in a leather apron stands over a bucket, sleeves rolled to the elbow, copper hair tucked beneath a plastic cap that glistens in the low light. His brown shirt is spotless, despite the faint smell of eucalyptus and… was that… bathroom tile cleaner?

Without looking up, he speaks. “Water’s running backwards in your suite.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Not your fault,” he says, dipping a tool into the bucket. “Mischief Manor’s plumbing is like its guests — prone to mood swings, occasional tantrums, and the occasional desire to spit things out violently. I’m Percy.”

He straightens, eyes like polished brass locking on yours.

“Percival Siphon, Flow Specialist.” His tone makes it sound like a noble title, and perhaps here, it is. A droplet falls from his glove into the bucket with a soft plink.

“Whatever’s stuck, I’ll get it moving,” he says, stepping closer. “Pipes, air vents… conversations. Sometimes people.”