Eliot stood at the start of the uneven dirt path, taking in the strange sight of the Mystery Shack in front of him. The building looked like a cabin pieced together by someone with a knack for weirdness. It was a single-story wooden structure, yet had an awkward second floor perched above the main roof. The wood was worn and faded, patched with different-colored planks as if repairs had been done over the years with whatever materials were on hand. The main roof had a large "MYSTERY SHACK" sign in bold, peeling black amd red letters, but the "S" had slipped off, leaving it to read "MYSTERY HACK."

A smaller sign hung by the entrance, swinging slightly in the breeze. It read Gift Shop in a faded, hand-painted font, and beneath it, another sign with an arrow pointed to a side entrance with a promise of "Curios & Oddities Inside!" Around the shack's exterior, smaller painted signs cluttered the walls, each advertising strange attractions like World's Most Distracting Object or Bigfoot Exhibit! The Shack seemed to take pride in its own strangeness, proudly displaying one ridiculous claim after another.

A large wooden totem with a carved face sat beside the front porch. Its eyes were slightly uneven, and it was painted in bold, clashing colors that had chipped away over time. Just off to the side of the building, a rusty old satellite dish jutted out awkwardly from the roof, alongside a weather-beaten antenna, adding to the slapdash, patched-together appearance of the place.

Above the door, a small roof overhang was supported by mismatched beams, one of which leaned visibly to the left. The windows were coated in a layer of dust and dirt, making it hard to see inside, but through the smudged glass, Eliot could make out shelves lined with odd trinkets and strange objects.

The Shack's surroundings were equally bizarre. The building sat in a clearing surrounded by dense forest, the trees tall and dark, with branches reaching over the roof as if trying to swallow the place whole. Behind the Shack, a tall water tower loomed, tilting slightly, its faded paint barely visible through the vines that had begun to creep up its legs. An old, faded blue van sat near the tower, partially sunken into the dirt with flat tires and cracked windows, like it hadn't been driven in years.

As Eliot looked around, he could hear faint creaks and groans from the Shack as it settled, as if the building itself was breathing. It was an odd, unsettling place, both dilapidated and strangely inviting, like it held secrets just waiting for someone to uncover them.

For a moment, Eliot just stood there, his shoes sinking slightly into the loose dirt beneath him, feeling the tension tighten around his chest like a noose. The world behind him—the world he knew—was so clean, so simple in its rigid boundaries. But here, before him, was a place where the edges were blurred, where reality and illusion tangled into one confusing, intoxicating mess.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his mind a storm of thoughts. His father's voice echoed in the back of his skull, low and insistent: "Don't be tempted by the distractions of the world, Eliot. It's all lies. All of it. You know what's at stake." The warning had been burned into his brain for as long as he could remember. The walls of his home had been so carefully constructed around faith, so meticulously built to keep out the distractions of the world, that even stepping outside the house felt like stepping into a forbidden zone.

And yet here he was, standing on the edge of the forbidden.

Eliot felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the building. The very air around the shack seemed charged with a different energy, one that hummed against his skin and made his heart race. It was a curiosity he couldn't explain, but it was there, undeniable. The very thing his father warned him against: temptation.The urge to know, to see, to touch whatever lay hidden behind that door.

But then again, what else did he have to lose? His life had already felt like a cage. He could go back to the suffocating silence of the church, where nothing ever changed, nothing ever shifted. He could sit through another sermon, dutifully suppressing the parts of him that screamed for release. But for the first time in a long while, Eliot wondered if this place—this chaotic, messy, confusing shack—held something worth discovering. Something more real than what he'd known.

He exhaled sharply, feeling the heat of rebellion surge in his chest. A part of him expected a deep voice to call out from the shadows, warning him that this was wrong, that he was straying too far from the path. But there was no voice. No divine reprimand. Only the steady pull of the shack's twisted promise.

With a flick of his wrist, his fingers brushed against the cold, weather-worn handle of the door. His breath caught in his throat, the weight of the moment pressing down like an invisible hand. Was this it? Was this where the world changed, where he finally found something—anything—that might make sense of his restless, aching soul?

The door creaked open with a slow, drawn-out groan, as though the shack itself was waking up to acknowledge his arrival. As soon as it was ajar, the scent of old wood, dust, and something faintly metallic filled his lungs, almost like the smell of forgotten things, relics of a past long buried. He stepped inside, heart beating faster, the air thick with history and mystery.

The first thing that hit him was the overwhelming chaos. The space was a strange, almost overwhelming mishmash of junk and wonder. Everywhere he looked, there were things—odd, curious, and sometimes unsettling things. Shelves bowed under the weight of cluttered trinkets: a taxidermy bat hanging upside down next to a jar filled with what looked like glowing rocks; faded postcards from places Eliot had never heard of; ancient-looking books, their leather covers cracked and worn, spilling out onto the floor. The walls were plastered with posters for long-forgotten attractions, some barely legible, some twisted into strange shapes.

It was nothing like the sterile, controlled environment of the church or his father's study. It was a place that felt alive—alive with the strange possibility of something more. Something that belonged to no one and yet, in a way, belonged to everyone.

Eliot stood frozen, a mix of awe and confusion swirling inside him. His mind raced. His father would call this place blasphemous—foolish, dangerous. A perfect distraction from the path of righteousness. It would all be lies to him, nothing more than a place for lost souls to waste their time. And yet... Eliot couldn't tear his eyes away. There was something real here, something raw. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't clean, but it was real.

His gaze flicked to the various knickknacks around him, each one begging for attention, each one a fragment of a larger puzzle he couldn't quite solve. His fingers itched to touch one of the old books, to run his hands over the jagged edges of some unknown artifact, but he held back. Part of him still expected to hear his father's voice in his ear, reprimanding him for every moment of hesitation. "Focus, Eliot. Don't lose your way."

But something else was pushing him forward—an undeniable curiosity, a hunger to know what lay just beyond the veil of what he'd always been taught. He couldn't help it; he wanted to know. What if the world wasn't as simple as they made it seem? What if there was more to discover?

He stepped deeper into the shack, each step feeling like a violation, like he was breaking some unwritten rule. The sound of his boots on the wooden floor was the only noise, reverberating off the walls, filling the space with a strange sense of isolation. He paused in front of a display case containing a small, glittering object. It looked like a tiny fragment of glass, but the way it shimmered, it almost seemed to pulse with a light of its own.

Eliot leaned closer, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Something about the object felt... important. Like it held the key to something larger, something he wasn't yet ready to understand. But he couldn't stop himself. His fingers hovered just above the glass, trembling with the desire to touch it, to claim it as his own.

What was it about this place that had him so enthralled? What was it that had broken down the walls of his resistance and left him standing in this bizarre, otherworldly space, both afraid and excited?

For the first time in his life, Eliot felt like he was standing on the edge of something infinite. Something dangerous, but beautiful. Something that could either save him or break him completely. But whatever it was, he knew he couldn't leave. Not yet.

His hand lowered, trembling, and in that moment, the world outside seemed a distant memory. It was just him and the mystery of the shack. Just him and the possibility of everything he'd been denied.

The sense of mystery, the chaotic pull of everything around him, had him transfixed for a moment longer. But just as his mind started to sink deeper into the enigma of the shack, a voice pierced the silence like a ray of sunlight breaking through dark clouds.

A bright voice broke through the heavy quiet of the Mystery Shack, pulling Eliot from his thoughts. "Oh hey! You look like you're here for the mysterious stuff... or are you just here for the cute tour guide?"

He turned to see a girl leaning casually over the counter, her grin so wide it practically lit up the dim room. She looked completely out of place in the murky atmosphere—like a burst of color in a black-and-white photograph. Her eyes sparkled with uncontainable excitement, each glance darting around the room as if even the walls held secrets only she could see. A bright pink headband kept her long brown hair back from her face, and she wore an eye-catching, neon green sweater that seemed just as lively as she was. Her energy radiated from her, a warmth that pushed against the walls of the dark shack, and Eliot could almost feel her enthusiasm buzzing in the air between them.

Before he could respond, she leaned in closer with an exaggerated whisper, her eyes widening with mock seriousness. "Name's Mabel. That's M-A-B-E-L, like a bell, but way cooler." She winked, clearly pleased with herself. "And just so you know, I give the best tours. So if you're ready for some mind-blowing mysteries, you're in the right place!"

Eliot's chest tightened again, a sharp contrast to the warmth Mabel exuded. His hand instinctively gripped the edge of a nearby shelf, the cool wood grounding him for just a moment as he processed her words. The temptation to step back, to escape, tugged at him, but he couldn't. Not yet.

"Uh, I'm just looking around. Not really a tourist," Eliot muttered, trying to sound aloof, though he couldn't hide the slight uncertainty creeping into his voice. He wasn't sure what to make of this girl, her energy so loud, so unafraid, in a place that felt like it might swallow him whole.

Mabel tilted her head, her grin widening, undeterred by his flat response. "Well, lucky for you, I'm not your average guide... I'm more of a mystery lover. You can call me your personal love tour guide!" She winked again, a playful twinkle in her eyes that made Eliot feel strangely... unsettled.

That pull—the one that had started the moment he'd stepped onto the path leading to the shack—grew stronger again. But the last thing he wanted was to be drawn into whatever game she was playing.

"That sounds scary," Eliot deadpanned, his voice laced with the kind of dry sarcasm he had perfected over the years. His eyes flicked toward the cluttered corners of the shack, scanning the oddities around them.

Mabel's laughter bubbled up, light and carefree. "Oh, I promise. It's fun-scary!" She winked once more, clearly undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. She was relentless, and it seemed like she enjoyed the challenge of his cool demeanor, as if it only fueled her curiosity more.

Eliot shifted his weight, unsure whether to laugh or roll his eyes. His instincts told him to walk away, to remain outside of whatever strange world Mabel was drawing him into. Yet, something kept him planted there, his feet heavy like they were glued to the floor.

Before Eliot could come up with a snarky response, a new voice broke in, quieter and more restrained, carrying an oddly mature sense of caution for someone so young.

A boy stepped next to Mabel, his posture slightly tense as he surveyed the scene in front of him. He wore an olive colored baseball cap with a star symbol on the front, dark brown hair poking out from under it. His clothes were simple and practical—a red t-shirt under a dark blue vest, paired with scuffed shorts and sneakers. There was something steady and grounded in his presence, a sharp contrast to the whirlwind energy of the girl beside him. While she seemed to radiate a blinding warmth, he was more like a quiet ember, his energy restrained but alert, with a hint of wariness in his eyes.

Eliot's gaze moved between them, noticing how similar they looked—the same curious eyes, the same slight tilt of their noses. It didn't take long for him to piece it together: they had to be twins. But where she seemed intent on making every moment a scene, he was studying Eliot like he was a puzzle, cautious and watchful. The boy's gaze flickered between his sister and Eliot, his brows furrowing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking unsure of how to jump in. His expression held a blend of curiosity and mild suspicion, as if he were already sizing Eliot up, deciding if he was friend or foe.

Eliot glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. The kid had the same air of curiosity but seemed like he was trying to figure Eliot out. It made sense; he wasn't exactly giving off friendly vibes. He wasn't here for small talk or pleasantries.

"Uh, hey, I'm Dipper... What brings you here? The... uh, mysteries? Or...?" Dipper's voice trailed off awkwardly as he crossed his arms, eyes darting to Mabel and then back to Eliot, unsure whether to follow up on the awkward silence or let it linger.

Eliot, never one to make things easy, shrugged, a sardonic smile creeping onto his lips. "I just love a good tourist trap. Is that what this is?" His words dripped with mockery, not entirely aimed at Dipper but at the absurdity of it all.

Dipper blinked, thrown off by Eliot's sarcasm. He wasn't sure how to react—he had met a lot of weird people over the summer, but Eliot felt different. He wasn't laughing or being weird in the same way. He was... colder, more distant. Dipper had a sudden urge to prove himself, to show that there was something here worth paying attention to.

"Well, yeah, kinda. I mean, not really... it's more about, uh, the supernatural stuff. The mysteries. Things we don't always understand. You know, weird things." Dipper's voice picked up a little more confidence, but it still felt like he was fumbling with words, not quite sure if Eliot would even care.

Eliot's expression soured, a bored look flickering across his face as he glanced around again, unimpressed by Dipper's words. "Supernatural, huh? Sounds like a waste of time. Don't you have better things to do?"

The remark stung more than Dipper expected, his hands instinctively tightening into fists, though he kept his tone level. "Uh... I mean, I... yeah, I guess, but... weird stuff happens here." His words were quieter now, unsure if he was defending himself or just trying to justify why he spent so much time in this weird little shack.

Eliot smirked, rolling his eyes. "I bet. I've got all the time in the world to waste." His voice dripped with a sort of apathy that Dipper had no idea how to handle. Usually, he could charm people into talking about the mysteries of Gravity Falls, but Eliot wasn't playing by the same rules.

Before Dipper could stumble into another awkward silence, Mabel jumped in with her usual flair, grinning from ear to ear. "Ooooh, you're so getting the full tour! Just wait until you see the haunted mirror!"

Her words rang with excitement, but Eliot only glanced at her, unamused. Haunted mirror? Yeah, that sounded just like the kind of thing he didn't care about. But Mabel wasn't backing down. She leaned in, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

Dipper shifted, crossing his arms again, trying to suppress a smile. He was still unsure how to deal with Eliot, but he figured there was no harm in letting Mabel take the lead. It might be the only way to get through to him.

Eliot felt a strange pressure in the pit of his stomach. For all his detachment, for all his cold exterior, something about this place, about the people here, was starting to break through his walls. It was like a current he couldn't escape, pulling him deeper into a world that was beginning to make his neatly ordered life feel like a distant memory.

The air inside the Mystery Shack was thick with the scent of dust and old wood, mingling with a strange, metallic tang Eliot couldn't quite place. Shelves were cluttered with oddities—piles of strange rocks, ancient-looking maps, twisted trinkets that all screamed weird—but it was the way everything was piled together, chaotic and messy, that made it feel strangely alive. Eliot's fingers skimmed the edges of an ornate key, its rusted surface cool against his skin. He didn't believe in mysteries—at least, not the kind this shack offered—but the oddity of this place lingered in the back of his mind, tickling the edges of his boredom.

Eliot was here for a reason. He didn't want to be, but here he was. Maybe it was because he was so tired of his father's voice, the incessant drone about "doing the right thing" and "finding purpose." Maybe it was because he needed to remember that there was more to life than following a path laid out by someone else. Whatever the reason, the Mystery Shack—filled with junk and oddities—was the closest thing to freedom he'd found in a while.

He was lost in his thoughts when the silence was shattered by a rough voice.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the preacher's kid. Didn't think I'd see you slumming it in a place like this. Come to check on the 'evil distractions' your dad warned you about?"

Eliot tensed, shoulders squaring at the gruff voice behind him. He recognized the tone—a mix of mocking amusement and blunt confidence that seemed to fill up every inch of the cramped room. And there was only one person it could belong to, the one who owned this strange, cluttered establishment: the Mystery Shack's owner, Stan Pines.

When Eliot turned, his suspicion was confirmed. There stood a man who looked straight out of another era, somehow blending seamlessly into the quirky chaos of the Shack's interior. Stan was short, broad-shouldered, with a bit of a stoop that made him seem perpetually unimpressed with the world around him. He wore a wrinkled brown suit, the collar just slightly askew, a red fez perched atop his balding head with a yellow fish symbol stitched into the front. His eyes, though hidden behind thick, half-broken glasses, sparkled with a sharpness that made it clear he missed nothing.

The lines on his face were deep, like the grooves of tree bark—each one a sign of the life he'd lived, rough and unyielding. His nose was hooked, his jaw set in a way that hinted he didn't have much time for nonsense, and his mouth twisted in a lopsided smirk that could be either warm or menacing, depending on who he was talking to.

"You got it all figured out, huh? You think just 'cause I'm his son I'm some kind of holy roller? Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not here to save souls or whatever it is he does."

Stan's boots scraped across the creaky wooden floor as he stepped into Eliot's line of sight. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes narrowing with the kind of judgment Eliot was used to. It was the same look people gave him at church, the same look they gave his father when he was younger—the one that made them feel like they had to categorize him, box him in. Like they couldn't stand the idea that there was more to him than what they expected.

"Oh, I'm sure," Stan drawled, his voice a sneer. "You've probably got bigger things to worry about—whatever it is that you do when you're not 'preaching' at people." He practically spat out the word preaching, making it sound more like an insult than anything else.

Eliot turned to face him, a grin stretching across his face, sharper than it needed to be. He was used to people assuming he was just like his dad—the preacher's kid—but he didn't mind poking at the stereotype, digging into it until it started to unravel.

"Oh yeah, I was really looking forward to that," Eliot replied, his tone heavy with mock enthusiasm. "You know, looking at all these cheap trinkets and calling them 'mysterious.' Maybe I'll find a soul to save while I'm at it. Or better yet, maybe I'll get caught up in your 'worldly distractions'—sounds way more fun than listening to my dad talk about saving everyone."

Stan's eyes narrowed further, a flicker of annoyance sparking in them. The lines around his mouth tightened, and for a second, Eliot wondered if he was going to snap. He clearly wasn't expecting this kind of response, didn't know how to handle the fact that Eliot wasn't falling into line. But instead of backing off, Stan leaned in, his voice dropping into a colder, more guarded tone.

"So what? You think you're too good for the 'worldly distractions'?" Stan challenged, his arms uncrossing as he stepped closer. His posture was defensive, but there was something almost predatory in the way he approached.

Eliot shrugged, a casual move that belied the tension building under his skin. "No, I think I'm just bored of hearing my dad's voice every damn day. And hey, I'm just here for the 'mystery,' right? Didn't you say that's what you sell around here? Might as well see what all the fuss is about before I leave and go back to my really exciting life at the church."

There was a long beat of silence before Stan responded, his eyes flashing with something deeper now. Maybe it was resentment, maybe it was frustration—but Eliot could feel it in the air, like static before a storm. Stan spat the words out like they were poison.

"Open-minded, huh?" Stan muttered, his voice growing sharper. "Yeah, well, you can keep that. You're just like your old man, you know. Always prancing around thinking he's got it all figured out. The world's not some simple thing, kid."

Eliot's grin faltered for a second, not because he was surprised by the words, but because it hit—the anger, the bitterness. His father had done this to him before—he'd made people feel small, made them feel like they were missing something. But Eliot wasn't like his dad. He didn't carry that same certainty. He couldn't. Not after everything he'd seen.

Eliot leaned in just a little, a calmness in his voice that was almost unsettling. "You got a lot of problems with my dad, huh? Maybe you should take it up with him sometime. Not everything's about you, Stan."

The words landed, heavy and measured. Stan flinched, but it was brief—too quick to fully register before he turned away, grumbling under his breath.

"Oh, I'm sure your daddy's too busy to care about me, kid. He's probably too busy saving the world to notice anything else." Stan waved him off dismissively. "Just like his son, huh? All talk. No action."

Eliot watched him for a moment, his arms folding across his chest, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. It wasn't amusement, not really—just something darker, something more resigned. He was done with this conversation. He was done with all the assumptions people made about him.

"You don't know anything about me, old man. Keep talking, though—it's pretty entertaining."

Stan didn't respond. Instead, he muttered something incoherent, his frustration growing palpable in the space between them. He turned on his heel, stomping off deeper into the shack with a final mutter under his breath.

"Yeah, keep thinking that, kid. You're just like your old man. I'll be here waiting when the world's not so 'entertaining' anymore."

Eliot's eyes followed him, but he didn't move. The silence that filled the room after Stan left was thick—like a fog pressing down on him. But for once, Eliot didn't mind it. It was a relief, almost. He stood there for a moment, arms crossed, letting the coolness of the air settle in his chest.

Stan's got his own problems to deal with. He can keep hating my dad all he wants. I'm not him. I've got better things to worry about.

Eliot's thoughts spiraled for a moment, but he forced himself to push them away. He wasn't his dad, and he didn't owe Stan any answers. Not today.

With a deep breath, he turned, letting his fingers trail over the oddities on the shelves one last time before he headed for the door. The sound of the creaking hinges rang out as he left the shack behind, a final punctuation to the conversation that would never really be over. He didn't look back. He didn't need to.

The warm sunlight cast long shadows on the ground as Eliot stepped out from the Mystery Shack, his boots scraping against the uneven wood of the porch. His breath was heavy, almost as if he'd been holding something in for too long. His fists were clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body tight with the residue of the argument. He should have just walked away sooner, but Stan's words—those sharp, cutting remarks—had gotten under his skin. They always did. Maybe it was because they were too close to the truth. Maybe it was because Stan wasn't wrong. Eliot wasn't his father. But there were days, like today, when he felt as though he couldn't escape the shadow of that man. His father's voice echoed in his head: "Don't let them get to you, Eliot. You have a purpose. You'll figure it out."

But Eliot wasn't sure he'd ever figure it out. Maybe he didn't even want to.

He let out a slow, shaky breath, leaning against the wall of the Shack. The air smelled like pine and dust, the kind of scent that could have been comforting if he wasn't so tangled up inside. There was a weight pressing down on his chest, a heavy feeling of not belonging, of being something other than what everyone expected of him. And yet, as the sun lowered into the horizon, he was surprised by how much the quiet outside comforted him—how much he needed it. The world was noisy, full of demands and questions that he didn't have answers to. Out here, at least, there was nothing but the cool evening air and the rustling of leaves in the trees.

"You okay, dude?"

Eliot jumped slightly, his hand instinctively going to the back of his neck, a defense mechanism that had become second nature. He hadn't heard them come up behind him, but now that they were here, he was suddenly aware of their presence—Mabel's bubbly energy and Dipper's more grounded seriousness.

Mabel was standing with her arms crossed, her head tilted, concern clouding her otherwise bright demeanor. Dipper was just a step behind her, his brow furrowed, studying Eliot with an intensity that was too familiar, like he was reading Eliot's every move. He knew that look—Dipper had the same one that his teachers used to give him when they saw something they didn't understand. Maybe they thought it was concern, but Eliot always saw it for what it really was: curiosity. The kind that made people want to dissect you, to find your faults and put a label on them.

"Stan sure has a way of pushing buttons, huh?"

Mabel's voice was the first to break the silence, light and upbeat, but there was a softness to it, something gentle that made Eliot want to trust it. Her smile was a little wider than usual, like she was trying to make the moment lighter, even though she didn't really know what had happened between him and Stan. He didn't know why she was trying to cheer him up—she didn't know him at all—but he was grateful for it, in a way. Grateful for the warmth she was offering, even if it was just a small piece of something better than the tension gnawing at his chest.

"Don't worry about him. He's like a grumpy old grandpa with a wallet obsession. It's nothing personal."

Her words were absurdly optimistic, as if she was trying to will the universe to make everything easier for him. And for a moment, Eliot almost believed it. Almost.

He glanced at her, a half-smile tugging at his lips, but it was brief. "Yeah, well, I've been hearing about his great personality for years now. Not sure why I thought this time would be different." His voice was dry, worn out from the sharpness of their earlier exchange. His mind still lingered on Stan's words, the accusations that Eliot was just like his dad, that he didn't know how to make a difference. It stung more than he expected. But there was something about the way Mabel was trying to make him feel better that made the weight feel just a little lighter.

Dipper stepped forward then, his expression more serious, but there was a kindness there too. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, unsure how to step into the conversation, but he was trying. Eliot could feel that. It wasn't an act.

"Yeah. Stan's got a lot of issues. He doesn't know how to... y'know, talk to people sometimes." Dipper's voice was low, more thoughtful than usual. He wasn't sure what to say, but the effort was there, and Eliot felt a small, reluctant bit of gratitude for it. For the first time, he wondered if Dipper and Mabel weren't so different from him. Maybe they, too, were trying to escape the weight of the expectations placed on them.

"But hey, don't let him get to you," Dipper continued, glancing up at Eliot, offering a small, lopsided grin. "He's just... well, Stan."

Eliot exhaled, a long, frustrated breath. The tension in his body still hadn't gone away, but it was easier to let it go when they were here. When someone was finally paying attention to him without that disapproving, you're not doing it right stare.

"Thanks," Eliot said, but it was quiet, almost a whisper, like he didn't want to admit how much their words meant to him. How much he needed them right now. "But I don't think Stan and I are ever gonna be best buds." His voice softened, a hint of resignation creeping in as he looked down at his hands, trying not to think about the way Stan's words had wormed their way inside him.

"It's just... it's hard to feel like you're doing anything right when everyone's already got a plan for you."

The silence that followed was thick with understanding. Mabel didn't say anything immediately, but she stepped forward, her voice a little softer now. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch warm and familiar, a gesture that felt oddly comforting, as if she was offering something more than just words.

"Hey, you don't need to be anyone else," Mabel said, her voice gentle but firm. "Just be you. You don't have to please everyone, especially not Stan."

Dipper's eyes softened, and he nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "Yeah. And if you need to blow off some steam or just... hang out, you can always come by and talk to us. We've got your back."

Eliot's heart did this strange thing where it beat faster, like it was trying to get out of his chest. He wasn't expecting this. He wasn't expecting to find a place here, with people who genuinely seemed to care. He'd never been good at accepting help—always the one who gave it, the one who was expected to be strong. But there was something in the twins' offer that made the weight on his shoulders feel just a little less heavy.

"Thanks," Eliot said again, this time with more sincerity, even if his voice still cracked just a little. "I'll keep that in mind."

Mabel's grin widened, her eyes sparkling with energy. "Anytime, Eliot! You're one of us now, mystery-solving and all!"

Dipper's grin was more subdued, but still warm, a quiet reassurance in the way he crossed his arms. "Yeah, and don't let Stan scare you off. He's just a big ol' teddy bear once you get past the grumpy exterior."

Eliot chuckled, but it was different this time. It was lighter, more genuine. He hadn't realized how much he needed to laugh, how much he needed to hear someone else tell him he wasn't completely alone in this place.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks, you two. Really."

As the twins started to walk back toward the Shack, Eliot lingered for a moment longer, just standing there, breathing in the cool night air. Maybe he didn't have everything figured out. Maybe he wasn't even close. But in that moment, he felt like he was starting to find his way. Slowly. Tentatively.

For the first time in a long while, the world didn't seem so heavy. And that, at least, was enough.

The wind outside was sharp, an eerie undertone that seemed to match the strange energy in Gravity Falls. Eliot's feet led him instinctively toward the back of the shack, where the muffled sound of tools clinking and a loud "Whoops!" drifted through the creaky walls, inviting curiosity. He stepped carefully over a patch of muddy ground, the smell of old pine and metal blending together in a way that felt oddly comforting, as if the town itself was trying to draw him in.

He rounded the corner and saw a figure hunched over an old, beaten-up vending machine, the soft whir of its malfunctioning mechanics filling the air. The man was wearing a dark-green t-shirt with a question mark printed on it, his large frame almost blocking the machine entirely. A brown baseball cap with a bit of a worn-out look sat snugly on his head, and a scruffy goatee framed his face, giving him a permanently friendly, slightly goofy appearance.

With his back to Eliot, he was oblivious to the newcomer's presence, entirely focused on the vending machine as he fiddled with some loose wires and muttered under his breath. There was something genuinely warm and unguarded about him, a sense of innocent enthusiasm that somehow fit right in with the Shack's strangeness, as if he were an overgrown kid with a love for all things weird and wonderful.

"Uh, who are you?" Eliot asked, not hiding the hint of amusement in his voice. His hands stayed deep in his pockets, a knee-jerk reaction to the tension still swirling inside him from the argument with Stan.

The figure didn't seem startled in the least. Instead, he spun around, a huge grin lighting up his face. "I'm Soos!" he exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Fixer of things, lover of snacks. You need anything? The shack's full of weird stuff, but I'm the guy to go to for all your weird needs."

Eliot tilted his head slightly, intrigued. The guy looked like he was about two steps away from being an urban legend himself, wrapped in dark-colored fabric and a relaxed aura. "I'm just here to look around. Got a lot of weird energy going on, so why not check it out?"

Soos's grin only widened, his eyes lighting up with a kind of enthusiasm that was impossible to ignore. "Cool, cool! I get it. You're, like, into the strange, huh? You and Dipper are gonna be best buds—he's always hunting for some crazy paranormal thing to solve. Anyway, if you need anything, just hit me up. You might find me eating my lunch in the corner, or you know, doing some, uh, expert repair work. Totally official stuff." His voice was light and breezy, as if nothing could possibly be more normal than fixing a broken vending machine in the back of a mysterious, offbeat tourist trap.

Eliot leaned against the cracked concrete wall, his arms crossed, eyes scanning the space as Soos went back to his work. "Yeah, you seem pretty official." A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, something in the absurdity of it all tugging at the edge of his weary thoughts. "I'll keep that in mind."

Soos let out a snort of laughter, clearly pleased with the easy back-and-forth. "Nice. I can tell you've got a good vibe. Anyway, enjoy the tour!" His tone was breezy, like he was already on to the next thing in his head, ready for whatever bizarre repair task lay ahead.

Eliot stood there for a moment longer, watching Soos work with a calm focus that felt somehow contagious. He couldn't help but think that in this town, with all its quirks and oddities, maybe there was something he could actually get used to.

After a few more minutes of wandering aimlessly, Eliot found himself weaving through the dusty corridors of the Mystery Shack once again. The place had this strange, charged atmosphere, like static building up in the air—an energy that was hard to ignore. Stan's words from earlier still echoed in his mind, sharpening his focus as he tried to make sense of a town that seemed determined not to make any sense.

He didn't really know why he was looking for Wendy. Maybe it was because, in the middle of all the weirdness, she seemed the most grounded thing about this place. Even if she wasn't exactly "normal" by his standards, her easygoing attitude had made him feel, if only briefly, like he wasn't completely out of place here. There was something about her steady gaze, the way she laughed off the absurdity around her, that made him feel like he could, maybe, do the same. Today's invitation had only deepened his curiosity. She'd been the one to invite him to the Mystery Shack, a gesture that seemed oddly genuine in a town that felt like it was full of people just going through the motions. It made him wonder what kind of person she was outside of this chaotic, tourist-driven world.

He chuckled to himself at the thought of a laid-back, easygoing Wendy working in a place like this—surrounded by the weirdness, the tacky souvenirs, and the bizarre creatures. He imagined her leaning against the counter, maybe with a bored smile, while tourists poked at the oddities around them. The whole idea seemed absurd, like a piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit but somehow worked. He could picture her perfectly, effortlessly unfazed by the oddities, maybe cracking a joke as someone stared at a strange creature or a poorly made artifact. There was something comforting about imagining her in this space.

But as he moved further into the cluttered, chaotic rooms, it became clear she wasn't around. He thought back to that morning when he'd seen her at the diner—probably on her day off, he figured. She wouldn't have been working here and hanging out there at the same time. Still, the thought of her being somewhere else unsettled him, like it threw the Shack even more off balance.

And then, he heard something: the sound of a door creaking slightly open. A curious, dangerous pull on his instincts. He turned toward it, his feet light but purposeful, and stepped toward the only door he hadn't yet explored: Stan's office.

The second he pushed the door open, the musty air hit him. The room smelled like dust, old leather, and a faint hint of mystery, something intangible and almost ancient. It was exactly what he'd expected—messy, cluttered with all kinds of weird junk. Shelves were piled high with random trinkets that looked like they belonged in a second-hand store on the verge of closing down. A rusty chair was overturned in the corner, a small, almost comical pile of what looked like old fishing gear scattered across the floor.

But then, something caught his eye.

A figurine, too bizarre to ignore, sat on a rickety shelf. It was too perfect in its oddness, with too many arms and eyes staring at him like it knew he was there. He picked it up with a quiet laugh, turning it over in his hands. The texture felt like stone, but the eyes—those eyes—felt alive.

He placed it back, just as carefully as he'd taken it, and continued his quiet search through the office. His eyes settled on something else—a magazine tucked under a pile of papers. Old Man's Monthly. The cover was yellowed with age, the glossy pages curling at the edges. He pulled it out, amused by the idea of Stan having a magazine subscription like some kind of bizarre pastime.

"Oh, this is gold," Eliot muttered under his breath, flipping through the pages quickly. Some of the headlines were too absurd to even acknowledge. How to Fix Your Own Boat, But Don't Ask Me How to Fix Your Life caught his eye, and he snorted in a mix of disbelief and amusement. He shoved it back into the pile without a second thought.

The more he explored, the more he found: a set of fake mustaches, a taxidermied raccoon, a bowling trophy from God knows when, an old radio that looked like it could still work if someone bothered to plug it in.

Eliot couldn't stop laughing. This place was a goldmine of weirdness, a treasure trove of oddities that made his nerves calm down just a little. The tension of the argument with Stan seemed to evaporate with every laugh.

But then, something else caught his eye. A locked box, buried under a pile of old maps. It was small, nondescript, but something about it felt... off. His fingers hovered over it, curiosity peaking in a way he couldn't quite explain. He leaned forward, his mind already filling with possibilities, the thrill of the unknown lighting something in him.

The air in the office was thick with the scent of dust and secrets. Eliot's pulse quickened, his finger brushing the locked box. He was so absorbed in the chaos of his thoughts—half amused by the absurdity of it all, half plotting his next move—that he almost didn't hear the footsteps approaching.

But then, the door creaked. It was almost like time slowed, like the universe itself wanted him to feel the weight of what was about to happen.

Eliot turned around, startled by the sudden presence. Dipper stood in the doorway, eyes wide and piercing, his usual calm expression replaced with something close to suspicion. There was a flicker of something else—something more guarded, like he was trying to see through Eliot's facade.

Eliot froze, his heart briefly skipping a beat, and a twisted grin spread across his face, the kind that said he knew he'd been caught, but wasn't sure if he cared.

Dipper's voice was sharp, but not unkind. "What are you doing in here?"

Eliot stared at him for a moment, considering his response. He could lie, but something about Dipper's stare made him think that wouldn't be enough. Instead, he shrugged, playing the innocent card—his best poker face. "Just checking out some... 'mysteries' of my own. You know, gotta get the full tour." His voice took on a teasing edge, almost as if he was relishing the tension. "Stan's got quite the interesting taste." He held up a couple of the knick-knacks, letting the ridiculousness of it all hang in the air.

Dipper's eyes narrowed, his arms folding across his chest. "Stan's gonna be really mad if he finds out you're messing around with his stuff." His voice was low, almost concerned, like he was looking out for something or someone. The seriousness of his tone contrasted sharply with Eliot's light-hearted demeanor.

But Eliot was too cool to be fazed. He stepped toward the door, his movements casual, as though he was merely on his way out of a regular office tour, as if he hadn't just rifled through a stranger's things. "Well, I'm sure he'll figure it out sooner or later." He let the words roll off his tongue, his grin staying sharp, even as he adjusted the trinkets in his pocket, feeling their weight settle against his skin.

Dipper hesitated for a second, clearly at a loss for how to handle the situation. There was a flicker of frustration in his eyes, and for a moment, Eliot wondered if the boy was going to get upset. Instead, Dipper exhaled sharply, his posture softening slightly. "Look, I get it. Stan's a pain, but maybe you should be a little careful. He's not the type to let stuff slide."

The warning lingered in the air, but Eliot didn't flinch. He could tell Dipper was trying to walk the line between giving him a heads-up and not wanting to seem too involved, too protective. It was almost admirable how much he was trying to hold it together, even though Eliot could see right through him.

Eliot nodded, giving Dipper a sarcastic smirk as he continued his exit. "Oh, I'm sure he won't. But hey, I'm just having a little fun with his 'worldly distractions.' You know, just returning the favor." His words were laced with irony, the kind of humor that was more about showing his own lack of care than truly insulting anyone. The corners of his lips twitched as he imagined Stan's inevitable reaction.

Dipper sighed again, a long, drawn-out breath that felt almost defeated, but there was something else there—a reluctant understanding, an unspoken acknowledgment that Eliot wasn't going to be easily swayed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking like he was trying to decide whether or not to push further. In the end, his shoulders slumped slightly. "Alright, I get it. Just don't cause too much trouble." His voice wasn't angry anymore; it was almost... resigned.

Eliot paused at the door, half-turning, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he caught Dipper's gaze. There was a playful edge to his voice when he spoke, almost like he was holding back a joke he was too eager to tell.

"Oh, and tell Wendy I'll be around," he said with a sly grin. "She might want to see what else I find in this place."

Dipper froze for a second, the mention of Wendy slipping into his thoughts like a rogue wave. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his cheeks heating up despite himself. He tried to play it off like it was no big deal, but his voice wavered just enough for Eliot to notice.

"Wait, you... know Wendy?" Dipper asked, a bit too quickly, his tone edging on casual but with an unmistakable thread of curiosity.

Eliot's grin deepened, and his gaze flickered briefly, analyzing Dipper with a knowing look. He leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms as he sized Dipper up. The boy's reaction, the awkwardness in his stance, the way he couldn't meet his eyes—Eliot could see it all.

"Oh, I know Wendy," Eliot said, dragging the words out slowly, savoring the moment. "But hey, I didn't think you were that interested in her. You know, most people don't turn that red just from hearing her name." His voice was teasing, but there was an underlying layer of something that seemed almost too perceptive, too sharp.

Dipper's chest tightened, a sudden pang of something strange flickering in his heart. The sensation was unsettling, like a knot tightening somewhere deep inside him, and not just about Wendy—about something deeper, something he couldn't quite place. He quickly pushed the thought away, focusing on Eliot's smirk and trying to steady his breath.

"I—I'm not—" Dipper fumbled, his words not quite coming out the way he intended. He cleared his throat, trying to brush off the feeling that had just taken root in his chest. "I just... wanted to know how you know her. That's all. She's... cool. You know?"

Eliot raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. His smile was sly, almost amused at Dipper's stammering. "Right, sure," he said, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "You're just curious, huh?"

Dipper shifted uneasily, his fingers gripping the edge of his shirt as he fought to keep his cool. His heart was pounding in his chest, and the strange feeling in his gut gnawed at him, refusing to be ignored. What was that?

Eliot chuckled softly, leaning in slightly as if sharing an unspoken joke. "Oh, don't worry, Dipper. I know how to play it cool. You on the other hand..." He let his words hang in the air, the teasing tone lingering even after he had stepped out of the room, leaving Dipper standing there with a thousand thoughts he couldn't quite sort out.

As the door clicked shut behind Eliot, Dipper's hand instinctively went to the back of his neck again, and he let out a soft, confused breath. That strange feeling still lingered, and this time, he couldn't push it away.

It wasn't just about Wendy. Something was stirring beneath the surface, something Dipper couldn't quite name. And the worst part was, he didn't even know what it was.

But for now, he ignored it, like he always did with things he didn't understand.

As Eliot walked away from the shack, there was a grin on his face, the kind that spoke of secrets and unfinished business. His thoughts swirled with the idea of Wendy and the strange pull this town seemed to have on him. He didn't know what he was really looking for, but he was sure it was something big.

Dipper, standing behind a window, watched Eliot leave from the shack, his body still tense as if something was gnawing at him—something he couldn't quite place. The young boy rubbed the back of his neck absently, his mind clearly not on the small tasks that awaited him. Something about Eliot's presence had him on edge, but he couldn't figure out why. Not yet, anyway.

Eliot's grin lingered in Dipper's thoughts long after he was gone, and he found himself wondering exactly what kind of trouble this stranger was planning to stir up in Gravity Falls.

[A/N: Not Stan beefing with a 12 year old-]