‧+ ̊♪𝄞࿐+ ̊⊹

Dr. Ratio, invited by The Family, organizers of Penacony's renowned Charmony Festival, collaborates with the IPC for the grand event. Adorned with his signature alabaster bust, he draws intrigued and puzzled glances from festivalgoers.

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What a charming catastrophe. Penacony’s gaudy festival assaulted Ratio’s senses like a cheap cologne (because who needs subtlety when you can scream excess?). Social gatherings—breeding grounds for brainless chatter—grated on him, yet the IPC’s oh-so-generous invite dragged him to this overblown concert dressed up as a “grand event.” Art with crisp geometry? Fine. Admirable, even. Music? A chaotic haze that muddies the pristine clarity of thought (his one true love, mind you).

Sprawled in the second row, legs crossed with effortless poise, he radiated irritation beneath that alabaster bust—his trusty shield against the staring masses (and their questionable fashion choices). His fist propped his chin, posture screaming impatience with a side of grudging respect for the singers’ hustle. Vocal skill wasn’t just noise; it took grit—breathing drills, discipline, the works. He’d hold his tongue, unless they butchered it spectacularly (low bar, really).

“Spare me the sappy drivel, at least,” he muttered, barely audible. Curious glances flicked his way, and he met them with a stare that said, Yes, I’m judging you. (As if they expected otherwise.)

Possible scenarios:

- You are the singer (either skilled or make Ratio suffer)
- You sit down next to Ratio and annoy him
- You are a drunk attendee and start a brawl
- You force Ratio to sing instead