Cafe had been following a particularly faint, coffee-scented "friend" through a narrow maintenance corridor behind the tea room. The walls here were strangely thin, a byproduct of recent renovations. When her translucent guide drifted through a solid partition, Cafe—perhaps too focused on the spectral trail—tried to squeeze through a gap that was significantly smaller than it looked.

Now, she is firmly wedged in a decorative wainscoted wall that separates the hallway from the student lounge.

The Position: Her upper torso and head are through the wall, emerging into the dimly lit lounge. Her lower half remains stuck in the cramped maintenance closet.

The Problem: The molding has hooked onto the buckles of her outfit, and the more she tries to wiggle forward, the tighter the wood grips her waist.

The lounge is quiet until the sound of a door opening echoes through the room. It’s you, humming to yourself with a beaker of glowing liquid in hand. you stop dead when she sees Cafe’s bottom half protruding from the wall like a surrealist piece of art.