“DUDE, JUST SAY IT!”

Chapter 1: The First Glitch

Zippy Zephyr stared at the blinking cursor like it was taunting him. He’d been rewriting the same first paragraph for an hour — his detective novel’s so-called inciting incident. The one that was supposed to hook readers, define tone, and prove he wasn’t another writer with a caffeine addiction and commitment issues.

Inciting incident, he muttered to himself. The moment the story changes everything.

He cracked his knuckles, muttered a prayer to the writing gods, and typed:
The detective stumbled upon a clue.

Classic. Safe. Marketable.
Stella loved when his mysteries had clever twists — the kind that left breadcrumbs without baking a romance into them.

The line blinked back at him once. Then it changed.
The detective stumbled upon a kiss.

Zippy blinked. Once. Twice.
He leaned in, squinting at the screen like it had just developed a sense of humor.
Backspace. Retype. Clue.
Blink. Change. Kiss.

He frowned. “Nope. We are not doing this. I write noir, not Nicholas Sparks.”

He typed faster — trying to assert dominance — but the word kept flipping like a child making faces. Then another line appeared, unbidden:

Stella leaned closer…

Zippy froze. Not a character. Not a coincidence. Stella Knight. His girlfriend. His editor. His muse — and the last person he wanted appearing mid-draft.

The cursor blinked again, smug as sin.
Zippy panicked, because Stella would read this draft and finally know…

He swallowed. “Know what?” he whispered, throat dry.

The screen answered for him:
…that he’d been too chicken to tell her how much he really loved her.

Zippy shot out of his chair, muttering to no one. “Perfect. My laptop’s writing better emotional arcs than I am.”
He rubbed his face, half laughing, half horrified. “So much for third-person detachment.”

The cursor blinked, steady. Judging.

Then his phone buzzed. A text from Stella:

Coffee in 20? Need your brilliant mind to help me brainstorm.

Zippy stared at it, then at the traitorous document. “Yeah. Great. Because nothing says romantic subplot like my manuscript outing my feelings.”

He shoved on his jacket, glaring at the laptop like it was an ex-coworker who’d leaked his secrets. “Congrats, novel. You’ve officially become my inciting incident.”

Stella  leaned forward. “You’re acting weird.”

He forced a smile, praying his ears weren’t as red as they felt. “Weird? No, totally normal. Look at me. I am the picture of normal.”

She smirked, clearly unconvinced, and took a slow sip of her coffee. “Right. Then tell me why you’ve been staring at me like you’re about to—”

The café’s chalkboard menu flickered. The letters rearranged themselves as he watched in horror:

“Order a latte, confess your love.”

Zippy shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. When he looked again, the board was back to normal, a neat list of cappuccinos and teas.

Stella  tilted her head. “Zip. What’s going on?”

He could feel the words tangling in his throat. Should he tell her? The manuscript glitch, the napkin, the chalkboard—it all sounded insane. But the cursor’s taunting words echoed in his head: too chicken to tell her how much he really loved her.

He gave her a helpless smile, his heart pounding. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She set her cup down and leaned closer across the table, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Try me.”

Stella  studied him over the rim of her cup. “You’re jumpy. What’s going on?”

Zippy tried to focus on her instead of the chalkboard still burning in his mind. He forced a chuckle. “Just… writing troubles. You know, my usual tango with the keyboard.”

“Troubles?” Her eyes lit with amusement. “What could possibly rattle the great Zippy Zephyr? Too many adverbs? A tragic lack of metaphors?”

He opened his mouth to deflect but stopped. The last thing he needed was to confess that his novel had started inserting her into awkward love scenes. He waved a hand vaguely. “It’s… acting funny. Like someone else is typing over me.”

Stella  leaned forward, intrigued. “So your manuscript has a mind of its own? Sounds romantic.”

“Romantic?” he sputtered. “It’s terrifying! One minute I’m writing a mystery clue, the next it’s insisting the detective stumbled upon a kiss.”

Her lips curved into a teasing smile. “Maybe your subconscious is telling you to spice things up. People like kisses more than clues, you know.”

Zippy’s pulse hammered. “Not when the kiss involves my actual girlfriend being dropped into chapter three without permission.”

Stella  tilted her head, auburn hair sliding across her shoulder. “Wait. Me?”

The napkin on the table shifted under her untouched hand. Letters rose up again, faint but clear enough for Zippy to see:

Tell her now.

He snatched it before she could notice, crushing it into his palm. “Y-yeah, uh, I mean, like… metaphorically you. Like, a character who sort of… rhymes with Stella . Totally not you-you.”

Her smile softened into something more curious, less teasing. “You’re hiding something, Zip.”

His throat went dry. He wanted to tell her. He also wanted to survive this coffee without spontaneously combusting.

“Not hiding,” he managed, fumbling for normalcy. “Just… editing.”

The hiss of the espresso machine cut through the café chatter. Behind the counter, the owners — a silver-haired couple who’d been running this place since forever — were in the middle of a spectacular argument. She brandished a spoon like a dueling sword, he waved a milk jug in defense.

“After three centuries you still don’t know how to steam properly!” she snapped.

“Oh, I know how to steam. I just don’t do it your way,” he shot back.

Stella  glanced over, eyebrows raised, then back at Zippy. “Wow. Immortal marriage doesn’t look easy.”

Zippy smiled tightly, his stomach still knotted from the napkin incident. He tried to laugh, but it came out choked.

Stella ’s gaze drifted past him to another table, where a young couple sat shoulder-to-shoulder, each glued to their phones. They scrolled in silence, faces lit by blue screens, thumbs moving in perfect mechanical sync. Not a word between them.

“Romance in the modern age,” Stella  murmured. Then her eyes flicked back to him, sharp now, the teasing gone. “You’re not like that, are you? Off in your own world? Because lately…” She trailed off, searching his face. “You’ve been standoffish. Distracted. It’s like you’re here, but you’re not.”

His mouth went dry. “Stella , it’s not—”

Her voice was quiet, careful. “Are you seeing someone else?”

The question hit like a glitch in his own heartbeat. The espresso machine hissed again, as if punctuating her suspicion.

“What? No!” His hands went up so fast he nearly knocked his coffee into her lap. “Ez, it’s not that at all. It’s—” He hesitated, torn between truth and panic. How could he explain that his computer was the other woman, rewriting their love life line by line?

The chalkboard menu flickered again. For a second, the specials rearranged into glowing script visible only to him:

“Tell her the truth.”

He blinked hard, and it was gone, back to muffins and chai lattes.

Stella  leaned closer across the table, studying him, waiting.

Stella  didn’t blink, didn’t smile, just waited. The silence between them stretched.

“Well?” she said.

Zippy opened his mouth. “Ahh… ahh…” Nothing useful followed. Just stammering, vowels, panic.

Stella ’s lips pressed into a thin line. She pulled a few bills from her bag, slapped them onto the table hard enough to rattle his cup, and stood. “Unbelievable.”

“Wait—Ez, no—”

But she was already striding toward the door, auburn hair swinging like punctuation.

Zippy lurched to his feet—except his chair didn’t budge. He tugged, twisted, shoved. The legs clung to the floor like they’d been glued down.

“What the—?” He shoved harder, but the table wouldn’t move either. His knees banged, the coffee spilled, and the chair might as well have been nailed into the earth.

Other customers looked up. One snorted. The married baristas paused mid-argument to watch, spoons and milk jugs in hand.

Zippy growled under his breath. “Oh, so now you’re working against me too?” he hissed at the table.

The chair finally gave way with a loud crack, sending him stumbling forward. He caught himself on the next table, mumbled an apology to a glaring businessman, and bolted for the door.

Outside, Stella  was already halfway down the street, shoulders stiff.

“Stella ! Wait!”

She didn’t turn.

He sprinted after her, weaving between pedestrians, nearly tripping over a woman with a stroller. “Ez! Please, hold on!”

Her pace quickened. He pushed harder, heart hammering. Finally he caught up, reaching out, fingers brushing her arm.

“Stella , stop!”

She wheeled on him, eyes bright with hurt. “Why shouldn’t I walk away, Zippy? You can’t even give me a straight answer. You forgot our anniversary last month, you’ve been half-present for weeks, and now—now you sit there stuttering like—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “Like you don’t even want to be here.”

Zippy’s chest clenched. He wanted to explain it all — the glitch, the manuscript, the impossible sentences writing themselves. But how could he say any of that without sounding insane?

The words jammed in his throat.

Behind him, in the café window, the chalkboard flickered again, just faint enough to catch his eye. New letters glowed through the glass:

“Say it before she leaves for good.”

He opened his mouth.

Zippy’s chest felt like it was collapsing. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. The words burned on his tongue, begging to be said.

“I—” he started, stumbling over his own tongue. “I, I, I lo—”

A jackhammer roared to life across the street. Pavement shattered, sparks flew, and his words were swallowed whole. Stella ’s brows knit, her lips pressed tight.

He tried again, raising his voice. “It’s all about you—”

The jackhammer cut off, and just as the last three words slipped out, Stella  caught them. Her eyes widened. “All about me?”

Before he could explain, a siren wailed down the block, a police cruiser blazing past, lights strobing. Zippy shouted over it, his throat raw, “I don’t love—”

The words echoed back at them, magnified by the narrow street walls. I don’t love… I don’t love…

Stella  froze, as if those four words had carved themselves into stone.

Zippy flailed for air, desperate to fix it. “You!” he blurted, shoving the word forward like a lifeline.

But the siren had barely faded when a brass band came marching around the corner — a full parade, drums thundering, trumpets blasting, cymbals crashing. The street erupted in noise and color, the kind of absurdity only the universe could stage at his expense.

The parade paused right in front of them, a marching line of baton twirlers and dancers blocking the view. He was still shouting “you!” at the top of his lungs, but Stella ’s face had already shuttered.

She stood perfectly still, her arms folded, eyes glistening in the fractured light. To her, the only thing that cut through was: I don’t love you. Everything else was swallowed by the oddly timed clichés.

Zippy pushed against the tide of paradegoers, waving his arms. “That’s not what I—Stella , wait! You didn’t hear the whole—”

But she shook her head, tears gathering but refusing to fall. “No, Zip. I heard enough.”

She turned, slipping into the crowd. The brass swelled, drowning his protests as she disappeared into the blur of sequins and flags.

Zippy stumbled to the curb, chest heaving, the word “you” still echoing off the buildings, useless, unheard.

Behind him, in the café window, glowing faint through the chalkboard:

“Every story writes itself.”

He stared at it, helpless.

And for the first time in his life, the writer had no idea how to fix the ending of his own chapter.

Chapter 2: The Manuscript

Zippy’s laptop screen was a battlefield. Overnight, his manuscript had mutated into something unrecognizable — paragraphs stretched with purple prose, metaphors stacked like mismatched Lego bricks, and adverbs multiplying like rabbits.

“The rain poured down like tears from heaven’s own eyes,” one line moaned.

“Little did he know…” whispered another.

Zippy groaned. “Oh great. My novel caught cliché-itis.”

He clicked, deleted, rewrote. Nothing stuck. For every line he fixed, three new disasters appeared. His detective thriller now read like a mashup between a bad soap opera and a high school poetry slam.

Then the screen pulsed. The words rippled. Out of the text staggered a figure dressed head-to-toe in black leather, cape fluttering even though there was no wind inside his apartment.

Zippy tumbled out of his chair. “No. No, no, no. Not you.”

The figure smirked, sword glinting in nonexistent light. His cheekbones looked sharp enough to slice bread. His voice dripped melodrama.

“Hello, creator,” he purred. “It was a dark and stormy night—”

“Stop right there!” Zippy scrambled to his feet. “I banished that line in 2016!”

The man bowed, cape swirling with theatrical precision. “You may call me… The Blade.”

Zippy slapped his forehead. “Of course. Because subtlety is for people who don’t binge-watch tropes.”

The Blade sneered. “I am the culmination of your unrestrained dramatic impulses. The villain every critique partner begged you to delete. And now—” He drew his sword in slow motion, taking at least thirty seconds longer than necessary. “—I live.”

The room shuddered. Somewhere outside, thunder cracked, even though the forecast had promised sunny skies.

Zippy threw his hands up. “Fantastic. Even the weather’s working against me.”

The Blade twirled his sword for no reason except the drama of it. A crash of thunder rattled the window — on a sunny morning. Zippy pointed at the sky. “That is meteorologically impossible!”

The Blade smirked. “Impossible? Or inevitable?”

Before Zippy could retort, his phone buzzed on the desk. Stella ’s name flashed. He snatched it up. “Ez—are you okay?”

Her voice crackled, warped. “Zip… something’s wrong. I keep—switching.”

“Switching?”

“One second I’m in a trench coat, interrogating suspects. Then I’m tied to train tracks. Now I’m in… a sundress, holding balloons?” Her breath hitched. “I don’t even like balloons!”

Zippy’s jaw dropped. “She’s flickering through clichés—my clichés.”

The Blade plucked the phone neatly from his hand, pressed it to his ear. His voice dropped into velvety resonance. “Stella , my darling, do not fear. When the world rewrites itself, love is the only constant.”

Zippy’s eyes bugged. “Hey! You can’t use my rejected proposal line from Chapter Twelve!”

Stella  gasped faintly on the other end. “Who is that? Is someone with you?”

The Blade winked, turning slightly so the light hit his cheekbones just right. “Just a friend of your beloved wordsmith. Call me… his understudy.”

Zippy leapt for the phone. “Give that back!”

The Blade dodged easily, cape whooshing as if the room had a built-in wind machine. “You were never brave enough to say the words. But I? I was born from your words. I am every overripe metaphor you whispered into the void.”

Stella ’s voice quivered through the speaker. “Zip, why does he sound more romantic than you?”

Zippy flailed. “Because he cheats! He’s quoting my worst drafts!”

The Blade pressed the phone close again. “Darling, if ever you doubt… just know: at the end of the day—”

Zippy lunged, ripped the phone free, and slapped it to his ear. “Ez, don’t listen! At the end of the day is lazy writing! I swear, that’s not how I feel!”

Her voice flickered, half detective grit, half soft vulnerability. “Then how do you feel, Zip? Because right now… it’s hard to tell.”

The line went dead.

Zippy stared at the blank screen, pulse hammering. He turned slowly toward The Blade.

The villain was leaning against the wall, polishing his sword like it was a microphone. “You really should thank me. I’m saying the things you’re too afraid to say.”

“Yeah?” Zippy snapped. “Well, here’s one thing I will say.” He jabbed a finger at him. “You’re the worst cliché I ever wrote.”

The Blade smiled. “And yet, I’m the only one Stella  heard clearly.”

The phone buzzed, skittering across Zippy’s desk. Stella .

He answered too fast. “Ez?”

“You remembered,” she said. Her voice was lighter than last night, but fragile, like glass waiting to crack.

“Remembered what?” His heart already braced for impact.

“The flowers. They came this morning. Delivery guy said their system glitched — late drop-off. But they’re gorgeous.” A soft laugh. “You doofizz. I love you for that.”

Zippy’s stomach flipped. Flowers? He hadn’t ordered flowers. But her laugh — nervous, hopeful — told him what she really wanted: reassurance. A second chance.

He opened his mouth, the words clawing their way up. “Ez, I… I… I lo—”

The laptop snapped shut on its own, then hummed. A low vibration filled the room, like static from a dead channel. The glow bled out, then — black. Total black. The screen swallowed its own light.

“Zip? What was that?” Stella ’s voice sharpened.

From the corner of the room, letters crawled up the wall in faint gray chalk, spelling a single word:

BLADE.

Zippy froze.

And then he wasn’t alone. A man stood between him and the desk — leather, cape, impossible cheekbones. His smile was sharp, knowing.

“Hello, creator,” Blade said, voice rich and deliberate. “I’ve been waiting.”

Before Zippy could choke out a response, a woman’s voice drifted through the dark. Low, lilting, impossibly close.

“I’ve been writing to you…”

Stella ’s voice flared from the phone, tight with suspicion. “Who was that? Zippy, who’s there with you?”

Zippy’s mind scrambled. Blade’s grin widened. The woman’s words still seemed to hang in the air, written in ink only he could smell.

“Uh—think, think—” he muttered, then blurted into the phone, “It’s nothing, just—my computer—uh—look, I’ve gotta go!”

“Zippy—”

He hung up, thumb shaking, and stared at the man in his apartment. The silence buzzed like broken power lines.

Blade adjusted his cape with a smirk. “Well played. Nothing says romance like hanging up on her.”

The moment Zippy hung up, Blade flicked his cape like he’d just stepped off a movie set.

“Really smooth,” Blade said, voice dripping mockery. “Hanging up on your girlfriend while another woman whispers in the background. Classic protagonist fail.”

Zippy pointed at him, half-panicked, half-offended. “You’re not even supposed to exist! I deleted you in draft three because you monologued too much.”

Blade smirked. “And yet, here I am. Which raises the obvious question: if I can step out of your story, what else can?”

Zippy opened his mouth, but before he could answer, the apartment shuddered. His bookshelf rattled, paperbacks spilling like dominos. One landed open on the floor — its pages rippled and characters climbed out.

A pirate stumbled into the room, cutlass raised. A cowboy followed, firing off a finger-gun that somehow sparked real smoke. Behind them, a swooning damsel wailed, “Save me from fainting too often!” and collapsed onto Zippy’s couch.

Zippy yelped. “Oh no. Nope. Absolutely not. This is how you get sued.”

Blade, unbothered, leaned casually against the wall. “They’re your discarded drafts. Your clichés. You wrote them. And now? They want out.”

The cowboy fired another imaginary round, blowing a hole in Zippy’s lampshade.

Zippy ducked. “Why are they in my apartment?”

“Because you,” Blade said, stalking closer, “can’t control your own story. And someone else is taking advantage of that.”

The lights flickered. The woman’s voice slithered through again, soft but commanding: “Every story writes itself…”

Zippy shivered. “Who is that?”

Blade’s eyes narrowed. “The Ghostwriter. She’s been waiting for her chance. And she’s using your weakness to rewrite everything.”

Zippy tried to laugh it off, nerves jangling. “Wait—you’re saying the glitches aren’t just messing with my book, they’re… editing reality?”

As if to prove the point, the pirate kicked over a chair, shouted “Arr!” — and vanished in a puff of plot smoke. In his place, a line of glowing text appeared mid-air: Character deleted for redundancy.

Zippy’s jaw dropped. “Oh, that’s not terrifying at all.”

Blade’s smirk faded, his tone sharpening. “This isn’t about pirates or cowboys. It’s about Stella . If the Ghostwriter controls the story, she decides who gets written into her love life. And right now, you’re not exactly leading-man material.”

Zippy’s pulse slammed. “So what—you’re saying if I don’t fix this glitch, Stella  gets—rewritten?”

Blade’s grin returned, dangerous and amused. “Exactly. And guess who’s next in line for the part?”

He gestured to himself, cape flicking dramatically, as if the universe had already chosen him.

The apartment was a battlefield of broken sentences. Words peeled off Zippy’s screen like angry bees, swarming the air.

Blade plucked one — “Little did he know…” — and flicked it into the wall like a dagger. It burned into the plaster in glowing italics.

“See, Creator?” Blade smirked, cape snapping though there was no breeze. “She isn’t just tinkering. She’s feeding. And she loves to show off.”

Zippy swatted at a swarm of adverbs clinging to his arms like burrs. “Who’s ‘she’? You keep saying she—”

The lights cut out.

The laptop snapped open by itself, light pouring through the keys. A woman’s voice slithered through the dark, low and amused:

“Watch closely, Creator. Let me show you what real writing looks like.”

The walls groaned, seams splitting. Pages tumbled down like confetti — but heavier, sharper. Not fragments this time. Whole chapters, still intact, slammed into the floor.

Then everything blinked.

The apartment vanished.

Zippy was standing in Rosie’s Diner.

The neon sign outside buzzed. The linoleum floor was sticky with grease. A trench coat man hunched at the counter. A waitress poured coffee into a chipped mug.

Zippy’s throat went dry. “Wait. I know this. This is—this is one of mine.”

Blade’s smirk faded. “Not one of yours anymore. Hers.”

The world shuddered, and then it came word-for-word, unstoppable:

The Hit

Outside Rosie’s Diner

She stood still, puzzled. Head tilted. Ear twitching. Zeroing in. She knew that noise. Not just a sound— A frequency. One she hadn’t heard since— Her eyes narrowed. Something was coming. A shift in the air, a crackle in the space between here and nowhere. The hum was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Closing in. Time herself taught her positioning was key—like a sniper in a ghillie suit, breathless, observing. And the advantage was hers: meticulously chosen, both strategic for its infill and exfil, and tactical in line of sight and peripherals.

Odd though, a bus stop on a bus-less route? Odd or not, she trusted her instincts. Especially when her left ear warmed enough to heighten her senses beyond even the most calibrated devices… The question was… who was the mark? Her? The boy sheltering beside her? Why was he even here? Then— A pulse loud and thunderous came one after the other. A rift cutting through the atmosphere like a scar. Her heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively took a step back, pulse racing. “Here we go,” she muttered under her breath, bracing herself.

The Car

The screaming came out of a narrow alleyway, its screeching spin spitting up jets of the afternoon’s deluge, rain sheeting off the hood like smoke. It slammed down on all fours, tires shrieking, dropping burnouts into the crosswalk as it drifted around a pair of pedestrians rushing from a subway entrance. Too fast for city streets. Too precise to be random. It burst out like an abstract—long, elongated, taut—a shadow out of the storm, not slowing. It streaked across shop fronts, darkening the city skyline.

Built like battle-hardened tanks, the Agency never upgraded the outside. But this one—this beast—was different. One headlight burned high, the other low, off-kilter, like it was daring you to make eye contact. Light, they say, travels faster than sound. Then someone better explain that to that beast. A black sedan—Agency issue—just whose, puzzled onlookers wondered. Were they the mark? In that instant their brows betrayed their anonymity giving their positions away.

The beast scouted low, fast, deliberate—cut across the avenue, tires hissing out names as if decoding DNA, foreign and domestic, tracing over the rain-slick asphalt. Frantically, chatter bombarded in all frequencies: “It’s standard issue” blasted over the airway . “A black sedan—recon mode, moving low, fast, but deliberate—Destination encoded.” Came over another all in clear not clandestine or covert as if the ops was already blown.

Flying off the ground as it slammed back down its headlights flared, scattering light across puddles and glass, beaming in dashes flickering like some sort of encoded Morse code straight into the top apartment above the diner. Suddenly, the car jolted once—then again, as if resisting an unseen hand. Brakes didn’t scream. They didn’t respond. Inside, as the battle tank lifted on twos, it edged hard around, as faces pressed to glass. Not a rookie driver. And the passengers—this wasn’t a joy ride, not with all that tech stuffed in grab bags. In free spin, no one panicked. The sedan swerved violently, missing a delivery van by inches. For one suspended moment, it seemed to pause—then accelerated. Deliberate.

Inside the car: “Eyes on the mark. Visual confirmed. Booth three.” “We’ve been compromised.” “Manual’s dead. Steering locked.” “They’re in there. No, there! The window to the right.” “Watch out!” “That’s not the target,” the driver called out. A hand grabbed the wheel. A sharp jerk. Someone cursed. Oksana braced against the dash—as the interior lit up in a blinding flash Then came the quiet. Then impact.

Two Minutes Earlier – Inside Rosie’s Diner

The hum of fluorescent mosquito catchers thumped, an annoying knocking telling its age. The air smelled of burnt toast and synthetic vanilla. A waitress crossed the room, coffee pot in hand, her hair tied in a fraying knot. She approached booth three. The man sitting there didn’t look up—he was too busy jabbing his stylus against the table, irritation wafting off him like a bad cologne. He turned his head, his nose twitching as he sniffed from her middle and up, his eyes locking onto hers—not at her face, not at the coffee… just a glare she had grown used to, but this time it felt different—dirty, dangerous.

He caught sight of her name tag. “K,” he muttered, a twisted grin creeping across his face. “I had a dog called that. She bit me. I blew its data right out of its head.” Her face drained of color, fear crawling up her spine like a creeping vine. It wasn’t just the words—no, it was the whole situation, the weight of what was happening in that moment. Her mind screamed, but her body froze. The air in the room shifted. Something had just snapped.

“I know your name, K,” he sneered, voice dripping with malice. “I’ll find out where your portal is too. Don’t think I won’t.” The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Her hands shook as she tried to steady herself. Across the room, the old man finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. He heard that threat. He knew what it meant. But the man didn’t care. His eyes stayed locked on the waitress, like she was nothing but target practice for his foul innuendoes.

The waitress flinched, caught off guard. “Sir, I’m—” “Don’t give me back chat talk back. Or I swear I’ll—” Suddenly, his hand shot inside his jacket. Too quick, too practiced. The gun cleared leather. A matte black sidearm. But no one saw it yet. Not the waitress. Not the crowd. Not until it was too late. From across the room, an older man in a weather-beaten trench coat stood without a word. Moved fast. Too fast. He stepped in and grabbed the waitress’s wrist. She yelped.

The coffee pot tipped. Brown liquid gushed out, thick and fast, splattering across the counter, streaking down like filth. Steam hissed as it hit the tile. She screamed—loud, ripping, real. The boy watching through the glass flinched, shunted backward like the burn was coming for him. For a second, it looked like she’d thrown the whole thing. Coffee flew in a savage arc, scalding drops slapping the floor between them. But she wasn’t screaming at the man. She was screaming at the glass. At the eyes.

The boy froze, mesmerized—her mouth stretched wide, eyes locked on his like she was cursing him, warning him. But why? Then he saw it. The reflection. A killer grille. Scorching headlights. Crushed black. Two headlights, impossibly close, swelling in the glass—filling the window like judgment. Outside, Mrs. P moved. No time to think. Pure instinct. She threw herself sideways, dragging a stunned teen down behind the metal bench at the bus stop.

Then – The World Fractured

BAM. Glass exploded. Steel shrieked. A wall became shrapnel. The black car plowed into Rosie’s Diner like a missile. Tables scattered. Bodies flew. Coffee and data met across the tiles. Screams blurred into one howling, mechanical roar.

Moments Later

Mrs. P staggered to her feet, boots crunching over glass and twisted metal. The air reeked of burnt rubber, data, and scorched electronics. All around her, the scene writhed—sirens wailing from somewhere distant, screams still echoing under the rain. The boy was still crouched beside the bench, the plastic-glass shielding him from the worst of the shrapnel, arms locked around his knees. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t even blinking.

“Hey,” she said, reaching down. “Are you hurt?” He didn’t answer. Just slowly looked up, holding out a waterlogged notebook as if it were evidence—or a confession. She helped him up. His hands were trembling, but not with fear. Something else. The notebook was soaked, ink bleeding across perfectly aligned lines. “Your book…” she whispered. “You’re not—” A new wave of sirens broke her thought. She looked toward the wreckage. The diner was gone. People moaned inside the ruins.

“It wasn’t a glitch,” she said. “It was a hit.” She looked back at him. “Were we the target?” The boy said nothing. But his eyes—calculating, not broken—were already watching the alley. “Did you mean to show me this?” she asked. “Who are you?” Then, like a trigger had flipped, he ripped away from her grip. “Wait—hey!” But he was gone. Darting through the wreckage. Slipping into the alley behind the diner. Rain swallowed him before she could even move.

She looked back at the wreckage. The booth was gone. The windows, gone. The man in the trench coat? He’d moved before the car ever hit the glass.

Seventeen Seconds Earlier – Inside the Car

Rain hammered the windshield. In the front: Ramirez at the wheel, jaw tight, knuckles white. Beside him: Delaney, flicking through encrypted feeds. In the back: Oksana, silent, watching. “Eyes on mark. Confirmed. Booth three, black coat.” Ramirez narrowed his eyes. “We’re drifting. Something’s rerouting us.” “I didn’t touch the nav,” Delaney said, alarmed. “I’ve lost control. No input response. Steering, brakes—everything’s hijacked.” “You mean someone’s driving us?” Delaney nodded, pale. “They’ve taken over the core systems. It’s not a glitch. It’s remote override.” “They knew our route,” Oksana said flatly. “They planned this.”

All three looked up— Not at the mark. At the waitress. The kid. The man moving. “Secondary contact,” Oksana breathed. “They’re not part of this.” Delaney lunged. “Watch out!” He grabbed the wheel. Oksana braced. Too late. Impact.

Aftermath – Outside Rosie’s

The rain hadn’t stopped. It poured down the waitress’s face, mingling with tears, flattening her hair, soaking her through. She stood barefoot now, her apron streaked with ash and leaking data, the kitten in her arms the only thing not broken. The older man stepped from the shadows. His eyes weren’t kind. But they weren’t cruel either. “I didn’t ask for any of this,” she whispered, her voice hollow. “I don’t have a place to sleep. The diner… the apartment upstairs… it’s all gone.” The kitten squirmed. Mewed. Its claws pricked at her arm, like it, too, was trying to hold on.

“You should get up,” the older man said, voice low, unreadable. Her head snapped up, red-eyed and raw. “Get up? You think I’m just going to get up? My life’s gone. My job’s gone. That was my home.” The kitten hissed, fur bristling, eyes wide. It scrambled to escape her arms and darted under a nearby car, where it growled low at the man. The waitress clutched her empty hands to her chest. “Even he’s afraid of you,” she muttered. The man’s eyes flicked once to the shadows where the kitten hid. “Maybe he’s smarter than most.” Her tears came again, not hot this time, but cold. “I didn’t ask for this life. I tried. I really tried. And now… I have nothing.”

He stood still. “I’m not here to fix you,” he said finally. “But I won’t leave you alone either.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Then what do you want?” He stepped closer, just enough for his voice to drop to a whisper. “To make sure you survive this.” A pause. Then: “Where am I supposed to go?” “Wherever you go,” he said, turning away, “don’t go alone.”

The Safe House

In downtown Up-Town Julian Thorne’s Penthouse doubled as a safe house. The air was sterile, filtered, lined with the sharp tang of circuitry and expensive whiskey. Julian leaned over his display, eyes scanning a corrupted code stream. The usual clean digital rhythms were fractured. Rewritten. Like a virus with a poet’s touch. “System-wide cascade failure,” he muttered. Elias’s voice crackled in his earpiece. “I’ve isolated three attack vectors. All hit within seventeen seconds of each other. Julian… It wasn’t a test. It was a statement.” Julian froze the crash footage on screen—Rosie’s Diner collapsing in a blur of chrome and glass.

“I didn’t green light any ops tonight,” he said flatly. “No active teams were logged,” Elias confirmed. Julian’s jaw tightened. The waitress’s face froze mid-scream. The trench coat blurred, almost out of frame. He whispered, more to himself than anyone else: “I’ve lost contact… and it’s not the rain. There’s something off about that team.” And behind his eyes, the grid began to shift. Slow at first. Then faster. Like a net unraveling in reverse.

Back at the Diner

Back at the diner, Mrs. P turned. Her voice was low, almost pitying. “He was in the wrong seat. That wasn’t his role.” He didn’t answer. Just stared at the wreckage, a twitch in his jaw. The rain caught the edge of his collar, soaking through. “They’re gone. Driver. Passengers. Just gone.” He kicked at a fragment of seatbelt with the toe of his boot. “Odd. Gear’s still here. Guess Christmas came early…” She stepped closer. “That booth wasn’t his. Not in this quadrant. Not in this… version.” Still nothing. Just a faint tremor in his fingertips, like he was tuning into something only he could hear.

Kelly stood a few feet away, coffee-stained and furious. Her voice cut through the smoke. “Hey! I’m talking to you. What, you don’t want to know me now?” He turned, slow. Kelly caught his eye. “You said this would be a chill side hustle. Bit of recon. Maybe flirt with a cute assassin. Some light role-play. That was the pitch, right?” She walked toward him, steam rising off her skin in the cold. “Now we’re chasing you through dimensional fractures just for a place to stay? That wasn’t in the gig brief, old man.”

Mrs. P’s eyes narrowed. “She wasn’t cleared for that.” Kelly shot her a look. “Lady, I just dodged a car ram, got threatened with a gun, and watched a guy evaporate through a booth that shouldn’t exist. I’m cleared for whatever the hell I say I am.” She stepped into the broken glass, not flinching. “You gonna keep walking, old man? Or are we doing this together?”

The old man finally turned around. Something mechanical flickered behind his eyes. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Kelly’s voice softened. “You sure I wasn’t the hit?” Silence. “Hey, granddad—take the cat. She doesn’t like you, but she’s friendlier than I am until you make it up. Got it, dude?” Turning around, he reached for Kitty. Gave it the one eye as it licked his hand and purred. “Traitor,” she murmured. The old man’s jaw clenched. “She wasn’t supposed to go first.”

But it was too late. He dashed after her—coat flaring, boots hammering broken tile. Kelly didn’t hesitate. “Dammit, Kitty—wait!” She bolted, chasing the ripple, heart in her throat, the wall already phasing. She dove— —and landed hard. Concrete? Glass? Static? She couldn’t tell. Everything hurt. The air buzzed wrong. “Shit… is that the diner? What—” No cat. No old man. No sign of home. “Dude?” she croaked. “This your idea of a chill gig?” Then something moved. An arm. Out of nowhere. Not from the shadows—part of them. It snatched her wrist. She screamed— But there was no echo. Just the pull. Downward. Sideways. Inward. Dragged into the ether— —just as the city went dark. Not just the lights. The skyline. Gone. Like someone flipped the whole dimension off.

Aftermath – Back in Zippy’s Apartment

When the last line of The Hit burned itself into

The diner, the wreck, the car, the screams — all of it ripped away like wet paper.

Silence.

Zippy stumbled backward into his chair, chest heaving. His apartment was back — but wrong. The air shimmered, letters floating faintly like ash. Pages from The Hit lay scattered on the floor, each one glowing faintly before dissolving into static.

Blade straightened, cape twitching as if still catching the echo of that other world. He sheathed his sword with theatrical calm, but his eyes were unsettled. “That wasn’t just a story drop.”

Zippy pressed his palms to his face. “No kidding. That was… one of my old drafts. Whole. Word for word.”

Blade tilted his head. “Weaponized.”

The word hit Zippy harder than he wanted to admit. He glanced at the walls — phrases had burned into the plaster, fading slowly: “Seventeen Seconds Earlier” … “Then – The World Fractured” … “Not just a glitch. A hit.”

Zippy’s throat tightened. “She can drop them whenever she wants. Any of them. Every discarded cliché, every dumb draft I abandoned—”

Blade interrupted, sharp. “Whoever controls the edit controls the world.”

The lamp flickered. Across the ceiling, more text scrawled itself in looping cursive, dripping like ink:

“Play it well, and you write the book.”

Zippy swore under his breath. “Great. So now life’s a co-op improv session with a sadistic editor who owns the rulebook.”

Blade gave him a sidelong smirk. “Sounds like love.”

Zippy glared. “Don’t.”

The ceiling letters blurred, then sharpened into quotation marks. Inside them, a single word:

“Next?”

The quotation marks hung there for a beat, then burst into laughter — literal letters forming a chuckle that rattled the glassware and set Zippy’s teeth on edge.

He sank into his chair, face pale. “So that’s it. She’s not just messing with me. She’s daring me to play.”

Blade’s smirk didn’t fade, but there was steel behind it now. “Then we learn the rules. Because whoever wins this game… rewrites everything. You. Me. Stella . The world.”

Zippy stared at him, gut twisting. He was a writer. He was supposed to know how stories worked. But this wasn’t plotting anymore. This was survival.

And somewhere in the blur between fiction and reality, a woman’s voice whispered in his ear, so soft he almost convinced himself he imagined it:

“Every love story needs its obstacles.”

The apartment was still vibrating with the Ghostwriter’s chuckle when Zippy grabbed his phone. His fingers slipped on the glass, still trembling from the “Hit.”

One name on the screen. Stella .

He hit call before he could talk himself out of it.

It rang once. Twice. Then her voice — tight, frayed. “Zip?”

Relief punched through his chest. “Stella . Listen, about earlier—”

But the words didn’t come out right. His voice glitched, staggered. On his end, he heard: Listen, about earlier… I didn’t love—

Her breath caught. “What?”

Zippy’s heart plummeted. “No, no, that’s not what I said!” He tried again, forcing the words out. “I mean, I lo—”

Static sliced through. The Ghostwriter’s voice, sweet and poisonous, wove into the line: “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Stella  gasped. “Oh my god. You’re breaking up with me over the phone?”

Zippy nearly threw the device. “No! Ez, it’s not me, it’s the—”

“…another woman…” hissed the interference.

Stella ’s voice cracked like glass. “I knew it. I knew something was off. Who is she, Zip?”

He smacked the phone against his forehead. “She’s not real! She’s a glitch!”

There was a pause. Then Stella ’s voice, colder now. “Unbelievable.”

The line went dead.

Zippy stared at the screen, every nerve in his body screaming.

Blade leaned against the desk, arms crossed, that maddening smirk in place. “Well. That went well.”

Zippy groaned, collapsing onto the couch. “I can’t even say three words without the Ghostwriter turning it into a soap opera. How am I supposed to fix this?”

Blade tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “By learning to write them better. Play her game. Use her weapons. You’ve got the clichés. Use them back.”

Zippy buried his face in his hands. “I can’t fight a voice with… with metaphors.”

Blade’s voice dropped. “Then you’re already lost. Because she’s not just after your words, Zippy. She’s after your love story. And if you don’t claim it, she will.”

Zippy peeked out between his fingers. His chest hurt, but beneath the fear there was something else — raw, stubborn heat.

He might not know how yet. But somehow, some way, he had to take the pen back.

Chapter 3: The First Counterattack

Zippy paced the apartment like a man rehearsing for a play he hadn’t auditioned for. A half-dead bouquet of supermarket roses dangled from his fist. His notebook was open on the coffee table, every page scribbled with crossed-out phrases: “You’re the light of my life” — too cheesy.

“You make me better” — too vague.

“My heart beats for you” — what is this, a 90s boy band?

Blade lounged in the armchair, cape draped dramatically over one side, sipping coffee like a critic waiting for the inevitable train wreck. His sword leaned against the wall, humming faintly as if it, too, disapproved.

Zippy planted himself in the middle of the room, clutching the roses like they were a shield. He cleared his throat.

“Stella , I just wanted to say… I’ve always cared about—”

Blade raised a hand. “Stop. Already sounds like the prelude to a restraining order.”

Zippy groaned. “I’m trying here!”

“Trying is writing three chapters of angst and never sending the draft,” Blade drawled. “Do. Commit. Otherwise the Ghostwriter will eat you alive before you even ring the bell.”

Zippy raked a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay. How about this—” He squared his shoulders, lifted the roses like a knight brandishing his banner. “Stella  Knight, from the moment I first saw you—”

Blade snapped his fingers. “Cliché. Too Hallmark. Next.”

Zippy sagged. “You’ve gotta give me something.”

Blade smirked, leaning forward, eyes gleaming. “Rule one of grand gestures: no similes involving food. Rule two: no references to stars, moons, or galaxies. And for the love of story, don’t say ‘soulmate.’”

Zippy’s pen hovered over the notebook. “So basically… don’t use every single thing I’ve ever written in my drafts.”

“Exactly.”

He stared at the flowers, then at the page, then at Blade. His pulse hammered. “But what if the Ghostwriter hijacks me again? What if she twists everything into garbage?”

Blade shrugged. “Then you keep going. Out-shout her. Out-write her. Don’t just mumble three half-words and hope for the best. Put some kahunas into it, boy.”

Zippy blinked. “Kahunas?”

Blade grinned, wolfish. “Yes. The kind that make women believe you can fight dragons. Even if the only thing you’re slaying is your own cowardice.”

Zippy exhaled hard, gripping the bouquet like it might explode. His notebook page blurred with sweat smears, his handwriting wobbling into half-legible loops.

He whispered under his breath: “This is either going to win her back… or turn me into the biggest idiot on the block.”

Blade clapped once, the sound sharp as steel. “Perfect. That’s how every love story starts.”

Zippy stood at Stella ’s door, bouquet in hand, sweat dripping down his back. He had rehearsed a hundred lines, butchered them all, but finally decided on something simple, something real.

Three words. He could do three words.

He raised his fist to knock—

—and froze. The bouquet was gone.

He blinked, looked down. The roses had vanished, replaced by a massive wreath of white lilies, black ribbon wound around it like a funeral shroud. A glossy sympathy card dangled from the bow.

Stella ’s door opened before he could react. She stood there in yoga pants, hair up, mascara smudged like she’d been crying. Her eyes landed on the wreath. Then the card.

Her jaw dropped. “What… the hell… is this?”

Zippy panicked, fumbling. “It’s—uh—it’s supposed to be—”

She snatched the card, read aloud in a flat voice: “In Loving Memory of a Love That Never Was.”

Zippy’s stomach plunged. “No! That’s not— I brought roses! Actual roses!”

Her eyes blazed. “So now you’re commemorating our relationship like I’m dead?”

Zippy threw his hands up. “Stella , listen—”

The Ghostwriter hijacked. His voice twisted mid-sentence, spilling clichés he didn’t intend:

“It’s not you, it’s me. We were doomed from the start. Star-crossed lovers, tragic fate—”

Stella  flinched like he’d slapped her. “Oh my god. You’re quoting Romeo and Juliet at me? Are you seriously breaking up with me Shakespeare-style?”

“No!” Zippy yelped. “That’s not me! That’s her—”

“…your better half…” hissed the interference, dripping through his throat like tar.

Stella ’s lips trembled. She stepped back, arms folding across her chest. “Unbelievable. You couldn’t just tell me the truth, could you? You had to make it a… a production.”

The wreath slipped from his arms, crashing to the floor. The sympathy card fluttered out, landing perfectly between them, the words bold, impossible to ignore:

“THE END.”

Stella ’s face crumpled, then hardened. “Goodbye, Zip.”

The door slammed in his face.

He stumbled down the steps, heart hammering, trying to breathe. The street was still, too still. Then—

The sky darkened. Clouds rolled in fast, blotting out the stars. A jagged flash tore across the heavens, letters searing themselves in white fire:

“DICK HEAD!!!”

Quotation marks snapped open and closed like neon scissors. The triple exclamations throbbed in angry red, pulsing like hazard lights.

Zippy just stood there, stunned, staring up at the insult carved in lightning. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the porch. Mud spattered his jeans as he landed hard on his ass.

Then came the rain. Not for the whole street. Not for the city. Just for him.

A heavy downpour slammed onto his head and shoulders, soaking him instantly, following him in a perfect circle wherever he moved.

The laughter followed. Deep, rolling, italicized. The Ghostwriter’s chuckle scrawled itself across the clouds in ten-foot-tall Comic Sans:

“Try harder, lover boy.”

Chapter 4: The Superhero Summon

Zippy hunched over his laptop like a general at war, fingers flying, determination blazing through the exhaustion. Blade leaned against the wall, skeptical but curious.

“This is it,” Zippy muttered. “If she wants tropes, I’ll give her tropes. I’ll write the biggest, baddest, superhero cliché in existence — someone who can punch the Ghostwriter right out of the sky. Done deal.”

The screen pulsed, words glowing: “And then, the hero appeared…”

The apartment shook. Thunder cracked. Zippy’s heart raced as he looked left. Nothing. He looked right. Nothing. He craned his neck up, waiting for the rooftop to cave in under the weight of a muscular demi-god with a jawline sharp enough to slice bread.

Silence.

Then a small voice cleared its throat.

Zippy froze. Slowly, reluctantly, he looked down.

A girl in a neatly pressed sash stood on his carpet, pigtails bobbing, a bright green box of Thin Mints clutched to her chest. She blinked up at him with unnervingly wise eyes.

“What the—” Zippy started.

“OMG, a dick head,” she said cheerfully, and stomped on his toe.

“OW! What was that for?” Zippy hopped in pain.

She rolled her eyes like it was obvious. “You get what you write. In your case? You get what makes us laugh.” She shoved the cookie box at him. “Eat the cookie, doofizz.”

He blinked at the package. “What—like, the whole sleeve?”

“No, clown. Not the cookie. The fortune cookie.”

He opened the box. Inside wasn’t Thin Mints — it was one oversized fortune cookie, golden and ominous.

The girl guide crossed her arms. “Read the message. Eat the cookie. Boys are so…” She sighed dramatically. “…like cookies. Dense.”

Zippy cracked it open. A slip of paper slid out, glowing faintly. His pulse jumped as he read aloud:

“The one you love will not wait forever.”

The cookie crumbled in his hand. He looked up — but the girl guide was gone. Just a few crumbs and a faint smell of sugar left behind.

Blade chuckled darkly from the corner. “Well. At least she didn’t call you pathetic.”

Zippy sagged onto the couch, staring at the fortune. For the first time, the weight of it wasn’t funny at all.

Zippy sat hunched over the laptop again, dripping sarcasm into the keys as if sheer bitterness could bend the words his way.

“Fine,” he muttered. “No superheroes. Let’s try… I don’t know… a wise wizard, Gandalf type, long beard, lightning staff, gives me the rules of the game. Done.”

The words pulsed. The apartment trembled.

A puff of flour-scented smoke appeared in the middle of the room.

Zippy’s heart leapt. “Yes! Yes! This is it!”

The smoke cleared.

It was her. Again. Girl Guide sash, pigtailed, carrying a cookie box like it was Excalibur.

Zippy groaned. “No! Not you again.”

She gave him a withering look. “Hey. Don’t dish the messenger. Or next time I bring you fortune pickles.”

He blinked. “Fortune… what?”

“Exactly,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

She shoved a new oversized cookie into his hands. “Now crack it open, loverboy.”

Zippy cracked the shell, muttering under his breath. Inside:

“The one you chase will not stop running.”

The words glowed. His chest tightened. Stella ’s face flashed in his mind — storming away from him in the street, eyes blazing.

He looked up. “Okay. Enough with the ominous vague riddles. Can you just tell me what to do?”

Super Cookie Girl shrugged. “I just deliver the carbs. The wisdom’s on you.”

Blade chuckled from the corner. “I like her.”

Zippy glared at both of them. “You would.”

Super Cookie Girl smirked, brushing crumbs off her sash. “Tick tock, word boy. You’ve got chapters left, but she doesn’t.” Then she dissolved back into flour-scented smoke.

A single fortune-cookie crumb landed on Zippy’s knee. He flicked it away, muttering. “This is my life now. Tormented by baked goods.”

Zippy sat at the keyboard, hands steepled like a villain about to launch a plan.

“Okay. Cookies, riddles, whatever. I get it now. ‘The one you love will not wait forever.’ Fine. I’ll do the big gesture. The red carpet. The ball. The ultimate romcom third-act reversal. She’ll see. This time I win.”

He typed furiously: “A glittering gala, a midnight ball, a thousand stars invited to witness the rekindling of a great love…”

The cursor pulsed. The room vibrated.

His phone dinged — confirmation emails: venue booked, limo reserved, A-list guests confirmed, lighting crews dispatched. His tux arrived in a garment bag, perfect fit.

Zippy grinned at his reflection. “Okay. This is happening. This time, I’m ahead of her.”

Ding-dong.

He froze, heart pounding. Showtime.

He looked left. No limo. Right. No red carpet. Up. Nothing but ceiling.

He sighed, already dreading it, and looked down.

On his doormat sat a fat orange cat, a scruffy little mouse clutching a mic, and a tiny bird perched on a miniature pumpkin.

Zippy blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The cat flicked its tail. “Meow. Nope.” Then it laughed. A low, weirdly human chuckle. “And no, dude, I am not pulling any pumpkin limo to the ball. Heck. No.”

The mouse squeaked into the mic. “Introducing Earfield the Cat, Eickey Mouse, and Little Bird — see, no copyright infringement here, folks! And you’re off to Eisneyland!”

Zippy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god…”

The cat smirked, licking its paw. “Heard you were down on your luck. Seems you misread a cookie.”

Zippy groaned. “I wanted Cinderella. I got… whatever this is.”

“Boys,” Earfield said, tail swishing. “Dense like cookies. Always skipping the message.”

The room shuddered. Neon billboards blinked on outside his window, flickering between CINDERELLA GALA TONIGHT and EISNEYLAND: NOW OPEN. The skyline folded, mashed up, recombined — high fantasy towers sprouting next to cyberpunk spires, pumpkins morphing into limos then glitching into motorbikes. Horror fog slithered through confetti. Laser drones circled above like digital bats.

Zippy staggered back. “What—what’s happening?”

Eickey Mouse squeaked into his mic, voice echoing like a stadium announcer: “Battle of the Writers! Ghost writes this, Zippy writes that! Tonight only: genre royale!”

Earfield leapt onto the desk, swiping his tail across Zippy’s keyboard, leaving glowing paw prints. “You started it, lover boy. Now finish it.”

Outside, the city warped into a living mash-up: princesses dueling hackers, noir detectives dancing with cyborg ballerinas, zombies serving canapés to space marines. The ball was happening — just not the way he’d planned.

And through it all, faint, drifting on the air, came a voice like a carnival barker:

“Cookies! Get your cookies here! That’s you, dude — gee, boys are so… so dense! Get your cookies here, doofizz! That’s you!”

Zippy clutched his head as fireworks, confetti, and pumpkin seeds rained down. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

Earfield grinned. “Good. You’ll need to lose it if you want to win this game.”

The city was gone.

In its place, a carnival of genres collided — gothic towers rising beside neon skyscrapers, fairy-tale carriages careening through rain-slick cyberpunk alleys, zombies in tuxedos serving canapés to space marines. Music throbbed, switching from orchestral waltz to EDM drop to Broadway chorus, each beat rewriting the ground beneath their feet.

Stella  stood at the center of it all, her eyes wide, her lips parted in stunned wonder. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

Zippy staggered toward her, tux crooked, hair wild, his shoes squeaking in a puddle of pumpkin guts. “Ez—don’t—this isn’t—”

Headlights cut across him. A stretch limo screeched to a halt, chrome sparkling like it had rolled straight off a perfume ad. The doors flew open.

Out poured glamour.

A parade of influencer queens stormed him, each one wearing a crown that glittered brighter than her veneers.

“Zippy! Remember me?!” one squealed, draping herself around his neck.

“Oh darling, Paris, 2019—our kiss under the Eiffel Tower—”

“You ghosted me, you monster!” another shrieked before kissing him full on the mouth.

“Hashtag couple goals!” shouted a third, holding up a ring light, dragging him into frame.

They smothered him in perfume and lip gloss. One shoved chocolate truffles into his mouth, another dumped roses on his head, another pinned him with a mic.

“This isn’t real!” he sputtered between kisses. “I didn’t—mmph—I don’t even know you!”

The crowd howled, voices layering into accusations:

“Remember when he said he was working late?”

“Guess who was on his lap?”

“That weekend he skipped? He was with me!”

“Couple goals, my ass!”

Stella ’s face drained, the glitter in her eyes replaced by a shadow of doubt.

Then — silence.

The swarm parted. A motorcycle growl rolled through the street. Chrome gleamed as a rider slid into view, headlights cutting like twin moons. He dismounted with liquid grace — boots on asphalt, jacket flaring just so. Storm-tossed hair. Smile dangerous enough to be copyrighted.

Heartthrob Lover Boy.

“Stella ,” he said, like her name was the only word in existence.

She inhaled sharply.

The Rescue

A neon sign above them cracked, splitting free of its bolts, plummeting. Stella  froze. He caught it one-handed, spun, and flung it aside with effortless precision. His other hand brushed her elbow, steadying her.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low velvet. “The world would dim without you.”

Zippy threw up his hands. “It’s just a SIGN! Not a prophecy!”

The Dance

Strings rose from nowhere. Violins, piano, a waltz unfurling from thin air. Heartthrob extended his hand.

“One dance,” he whispered. “Before the night steals you away.”

Stella  shook her head. “There’s no music—”

But when his hand touched hers, the world bent. Rain-slick street bloomed into a ballroom. Chandeliers swung overhead, marble floors gleamed, strangers twirled in gowns and tuxedos.

He spun her once, twice, dipped her low. “Every step tells me what words never could.”

Zippy flailed in the corner, truffles in his hair. “He’s glitch-dancing reality! You can’t just ballroom a sidewalk!”

The Danger

The ballroom flickered away. Tires screeched — a runaway taxi barreled toward them.

Stella  gasped. Zippy screamed.

Heartthrob moved like choreography: scooped her up, spun, vaulted clear over the hood. They landed in a spray of rain, her laughter breathless against his chest.

“Every second with you,” he said, setting her down gently, “is worth the risk.”

Zippy was still screaming long after the taxi had gone.

The Kiss (Almost)

Rain streaked her hair. Heartthrob brushed it back, slow, deliberate. His face drew closer. Her eyes fluttered shut.

Zippy hurled himself between them, arms wide. “NO! This is MY romance! MY scene!”

The sky split open. Lightning carved across the clouds:

“PATHETIC!!!”

Quotation marks flared like neon guillotines, triple exclamations pounding in red.

Stella  startled. Heartthrob only smiled, calm as a script rewritten in his favor. “See? Even the heavens agree — you deserve better than a clown.”

The Desperation

Zippy’s chest heaved. His eyes darted to his laptop. “Fine. If he can summon tropes, so can I.”

His fingers flew, soaked keys sparking: “Summon: ultimate superhero, undefeated, unbreakable, crush the Ghostwriter, win the girl.”

The glitch pulsed. Reality bent. Zippy grinned. “Here it comes. My ace. My—”

He looked left. Nothing.

Right. Nothing.

Up. Nothing.

Then he sighed, looked down—

—and blinked.

A Girl Guide stood at his feet. Cookie bag bigger than her torso. She squinted up at him.

“OMG. A dickhead.”

Before he could react, she stomped his toe.

“OW!” He hopped, clutching his foot. “What was that for?!”

“You get what you wrote,” she said flatly. “And in your case? You get what makes us laugh.” She shoved a cookie into his hand. “Eat it, doofizz.”

He stared. “It’s a fortune cookie?”

“No, it’s a cookie-cookie. Dense. Like you.” She slapped another bag against his chest. “Read the fortune. Then eat the cookie. Boys…” She rolled her eyes. “…always dense. Like cookies.”

He cracked it open. Inside glowed the words:

“Only the truth you fear to write can save her.”

Zippy’s throat locked. “I…”

But the Ghostwriter struck.

The Steal

The words twisted in his mouth. His desperate cry warped mid-breath:

“It’s not you, it’s me!”

“We were doomed from the start!”

“You deserve someone better!”

Stella  froze in Lover Boy’s arms. Her eyes wet, wide. “Zip… why are you saying this?”

“I’m not—it’s not me—it’s her!” He clawed at the sky. “Stop it! Stop rewriting me!”

The heavens thundered with laughter.

“CHECKMATE, LOVER BOY.”

The phrase smeared across the storm in Comic Sans, quotation marks snapping like neon scissors.

Stella  leaned into Heartthrob, trembling. “Maybe he’s right…”

And the Ghostwriter twisted the knife one last time. Fireworks erupted, spelling out:

“Flowers are for boys. Wars are for men.”

Zippy dropped to his knees, mud splattering his tux. Cookie Girl sighed, biting into her own snack.

“Told you, clown. Should’ve read it faster.”

Above, the clouds pulsed again. Lightning scrawled three giant words in dripping red italics:

“DICK HEAD!!!”

The triple exclamations flashed like hazard lights.

Zippy slumped, soaking, trembling. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

He looked up, eyes blazing. “Fine. You want war? You’ve got war.”

The carnival dissolved. Neon towers flickered out. The ballroom floor vanished under puddles and broken roses.

Silence.

Zippy knelt in the mud, tux torn, cookie slip clinging wet to his fingers. The letters bled, dissolving into sparks that hissed and died.

Above, the storm’s insult still glowed faint:

“DICK HEAD!!!”

He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Smears of lipstick, mud, and melted chocolate blurred together, painting him in clown colors. His breath came in shudders. He let out a broken laugh that wasn’t laughter at all.

A slow clap cracked the silence.

Blade leaned against a lamppost, rain sliding down his coat, smirk sharp as glass. “Bravo. Theatrics worthy of a Greek tragedy. Or a Saturday morning cartoon.”

Zippy pressed his palms to his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I must,” Blade said, striding closer, boots splashing through puddles. He crouched to eye level. “The Ghostwriter doesn’t even need to kill you. You humiliate yourself just fine.”

Something smacked Zippy’s shoulder. A paper bag. Grease-stained, heavy with sugar.

“Snack time, doofizz,” came a voice.

Zippy lifted his head. She was there — sash crooked, cookie bag slung like a weapon. The Girl Guide. Super Cookie Girl. Whatever she was. She chewed noisily, crumbs scattering like confetti.

“Go on,” she said, nodding at the bag. “Crack one. Cry later.”

He dug a cookie out, hands trembling. Snapped it. Inside, another fortune, glowing faint in the rain. He unfolded it with care, lips moving silently.

Blade plucked it from his hand, read aloud with mock gravitas:

“What you write for laughs can wound. What you write for love can win.”

He flicked it back at Zippy like trash. “Adorable.”

Zippy hunched over, clutching the slip, rain dripping off his nose.

Cookie Girl crouched beside him, chin on her fist. “Dense. Like cookies. Always.” She shoved another cookie in her mouth. “Thing is, clown, you can’t win by scribbling over him. He owns the page. You gotta use the joke, the cringe, the cliché. Flip it. Make it land harder than he does.”

Blade’s smirk lingered, but his eyes narrowed, calculating. “She’s not wrong. Weaponize the tropes, or drown in them.”

Then—another flash. Not lightning. Spotlights.

A caped figure dropped from the sky, landing in a puddle with a splash that rippled gold. Behind him, two more strutted out of the fog, all armor, capes, and overacting.

Super Stars. Super Heroes. A whole squad of them, every one brighter, cleaner, stronger than Zippy.

The first one bent down, plucked the soggy slip from Zippy’s hand. He flipped it over.

The back glowed with words Zippy hadn’t seen.

“Every fortune has two sides.”

The hero winked. “Next time, champ, turn it over. Otherwise you’ll be walking under your own raincloud forever.”

Another hero clapped Zippy on the shoulder, almost knocking him into the mud again. “Rookie mistake. You only ever read the front. The Ghostwriter loves that. He counts on it.”

The squad saluted, then vanished back into the glitch, leaving only the faint smell of popcorn and ozone.

Zippy stared at the empty slip, both sides now glowing faint in his hand. His jaw tightened. His breath steadied.

Above, thunder rolled, slow and deliberate. The sky was listening.

He lifted his head, eyes blazing. For the first time, his voice didn’t wobble.

“Then I’ll write back.”

Chapter 5: The Showdown Runway

The lights came up like judgment.

One moment, Zippy was stumbling through puddles of neon rain, the next—he was center stage in a place that shouldn’t exist. Half Paris runway, half desert ghost town, with bullet-pocked saloon doors swinging at one end and a diamond-crusted arch at the other. Spotlights traced him, long shadows stretching across a floor that glimmered like polished obsidian.

Stella  stood dead center, sequins catching the light, her breath fogging in the desert chill. Beside her, Heartthrob Lover Boy gleamed in a tailored coat so sharp it could cut glass. He smirked as if the universe itself had written him the part.

The crowd roared. Not people—tropes. Influencers with ring lights for eyes, cowboys with hashtags on their hats, fashion models strutting with six-shooters strapped to glittering belts. They hooted, clapped, chanted like this was a finale everyone but Zippy had rehearsed.

From the rafters, glowing ink scrawled itself across the sky:

“The Okay Corral, rewritten by Vogue.”

Stella  turned slowly, caught in the spectacle, her lips parted in awe.

“Ez…” Zippy croaked. His voice cracked. He wanted to run to her, but his shoes sank into the obsidian floor as if it were wet tar.

Heartthrob touched her hand—smooth, perfect, confident. “Ignore the clown, darling,” he purred. “Some men can only trip in their own spotlight. I’ll show you what it means to be written for greatness.”

The crowd screamed.

A cookie spun across the ground and landed at Zippy’s feet, glowing faintly. Cookie Girl leaned against a phantom lamppost just beyond the lights, her silhouette smirking. “Next time,” she called, “turn it over, genius.”

His fingers shook as he cracked it. The message flared bright.

“Three words. Or she’s gone.”

Zippy looked up. Stella ’s eyes flicked toward him—brief, searching. Like she wanted to believe, but Heartthrob’s hand was steady, grounding, everything he wasn’t.

The Ghostwriter struck.

“DRAW!” thundered across the sky.

Gunfire cracked—except the bullets were words. Sentences fired in italics, ricocheting across the stage.

Heartthrob spun, firing lines like silver slugs:

“You deserve better.”

“I’ll fight the stars for you.”

“He never loved you.”

Each shot sizzled into the ground at Stella ’s feet, flaring in neon before burning out.

Zippy ducked, hands over his head. “Stop—STOP!”

Cookie Girl shouted from the wings: “Don’t dodge, dummy—WRITE BACK!”

He gasped, grabbed a pen from his pocket, scribbled across the air. The letters glowed, then launched like arrows. His shots were clumsy, but they flew:

“She’s radiant!”

“She’s my muse!”

“She’s—”

But the words warped midair, twisted by the Ghostwriter:

“She’s replaceable.”

“She’s a mistake.”

“She’s… nothing.”

Stella  flinched. The crowd gasped.

Zippy’s knees buckled. He dropped the pen. “I can’t… I can’t win this.”

Cookie Girl stomped her foot. “Dense, dense, dense! It’s not about pen tricks, doofizz. It’s about saying what you’re too scared to write.”

Zippy’s throat tightened. His palms sweated. His whole body screamed to run, to hide, to let the scene collapse around him.

But Stella ’s eyes found him again—wide, trembling, desperate to know.

His chest cracked open. His voice broke raw.

“I LOVE YOU!”

The words tore free, unfiltered, unwarped. They blazed gold across the runway, burning through the Ghostwriter’s edits. The crowd shrieked, shielding their eyes. Even Heartthrob staggered back, his perfect smile twitching.

Stella  gasped, her hand at her lips. For the first time, she saw past the tropes, past the chaos, straight to him.

The sky split with fury.

“NO!!!” thundered in bold black ink, quotation marks snapping like guillotines.

The Ghostwriter’s laugh turned into a scream. The stage cracked. Reality splintered. And Zippy, for the first time, wasn’t shrinking—he was standing tall, roses and chocolate stains and all.

“Rewrite that,” he snarled.

The laughter still echoed in the sky, jagged Comic Sans thunder rolling across the clouds.

Zippy lay in the gutter, roses plastered to his jacket, chocolate dripping down his chin. “Checkmate, lover boy” still burned overhead in glittering letters.

He tried to push himself up. The street buckled. The world convulsed like a page being ripped from a notebook. Asphalt dissolved into lacquered wood, lampposts stretched into spotlights, and the parade crowd melted into silhouettes of paparazzi.

The city was gone.

Now there was only a catwalk.

Zippy staggered upright, squinting against the sudden blaze of strobe lights. Music pounded — heavy bass, shrieking synths — the kind of beat that swallowed your ribs and spat them out again. His manuscript pages swirled around him like confetti, skittering across the polished runway floor.

He looked down. His mud-streaked tux had been replaced by sequins. Sequins everywhere. A suit so blinding it could blind a blind man. He groaned. “Oh no. I’ve been bedazzled.”

Flashbulbs exploded. Camera shutters clicked.

Then — her.

Stella .

But not Stella .

She strutted past in a gown that shimmered silver one second, medieval velvet the next, then snapped into a gleaming spacesuit with a single blink. She didn’t glance at him. She didn’t even hesitate. She hit the end of the runway and pivoted, striking a pose that could kill a man quicker than a bullet.

Zippy’s throat closed. “Ez…”

The music cut. A voice boomed, syrupy and cruel, dripping with theater:

“Darlings! Isn’t it fabulous?”

Glitter rained from the rafters. Rose petals followed. And from the ceiling, descending like some camp angel of doom, came a figure with pastel wings and a suit made entirely of arrows. He landed in a twirl that sent sparkles skittering down the catwalk.

“Moi?” He clutched his chest, scandalized. “I am Arrows Couture — Lead Cupid and your manuscript’s new creative director!”

He winked, lips curling in a condescending smile. “Darling, noir is so last season. What the world craves is love. Romance. Glamour!” He flicked his wrist and the spotlights flared, framing Stella  in pure adoration.

Zippy gawked. “You’re kidding me.”

Arrows Couture patted his cheek, leaving a smear of glitter. “No, darling. I’m rewriting you.”

The runway shook. Models emerged from behind glowing heart-shaped arches, wearing trench coats stitched from sequins, magnifying glasses sparkling with Swarovski crystals. They paraded like Zippy’s old noir cast — but twisted, preened, repurposed into romance tropes.

Zippy’s stomach knotted. This wasn’t just another humiliation. This was the Ghostwriter’s next round.

The bass dropped again, shaking the runway like a battlefield.

Stella  strode forward, her gown morphing with each step — noir trench, silver gown, space armor, then back again. Each transformation hit like a slap, each pose drawing gasps from the crowd that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Zippy lurched after her, sequined shoes squeaking against the floor. “Stella ! That’s not you. That’s not—”

Spotlight snap. Shadow peeled back.

A figure stepped into the glow.

Blade.

Only not the Blade he’d written. No trench coat. No knife-edge menace. His coat had become a star-scattered tuxedo, lapels glowing faintly like constellations stitched into fabric. His face — once carved from stone — looked soft, uncertain.

“I…” Blade flexed his hands, staring at them as if they weren’t his own. “What’s happening to me?”

Zippy froze. “Blade?”

Arrows Couture clapped his jeweled hands. “Marvelous! The brooding antagonist discovering his tender side. Darling, you’re a hit already.”

Blade’s jaw clenched. He tried to snarl — but what came out was a sigh, almost longing. His eyes flicked toward Stella .

Zippy’s stomach twisted. “No. No, no, no. Don’t you dare—”

But Stella ’s gaze met Blade’s. For one fragile second, the detective-turned-muse hesitated mid-stride, her silver gown shimmering like liquid moonlight.

Zippy broke. He lunged forward, grabbing a crumpled page at his feet. His manuscript. His words. His last weapon. He fumbled a pen from his sequined pocket, the ink trembling in his hand.

“I’ll write it back,” he muttered. “I’ll fix this.”

Arrows Couture gasped, throwing glitter like smoke. “Oh no, darling — not that tired trick again!”

Zippy ignored him, scribbling furiously. “The Blade stood in shadows, cold, merciless—”

The page shivered, half-burning, half-freezing in his grip. Reality buckled. Blade flickered — noir trench one heartbeat, constellation tux the next. His expression tore down the middle, half menace, half yearning.

Zippy pushed harder, pen biting through paper. “He never wavered. He never—”

Snap.

The runway cracked like glass. Neon signs bled into gothic arches. Roses poured from the ceiling like rain. Stella  stumbled as the ground shifted beneath her stilettos, her gown caught halfway between ballgown and trench.

Blade doubled over, his voice jagged. “Stop… rewriting me.”

Zippy froze, pen shaking in his grip.

Because it wasn’t Arrows Couture speaking now.

It was the Ghostwriter — speaking through Blade’s mouth.

The spotlight turned blood-red. Arrows Couture flung his arms wide, glitter falling like ash. “Darling, welcome to Act Two!”

The crowd roared, faceless, endless, hungry.

And Zippy realized he hadn’t saved anything. He’d just torn another hole in the page.

The runway split like a zipper down the middle, one half drenched in noir shadow, the other awash in pink neon hearts. Stella  teetered between them, one heel on grit, the other on glitter. Her silver gown shimmered indecisively, caught between trench coat and tiara.

She turned sharply, her voice cutting through the music. “What’s happening to me? To all of us?”

Blade stepped forward, his tux still flickering between menace and moonlight. His voice cracked. “It’s not you. It’s me. No—it’s him.” He jabbed a trembling finger at Zippy. “He wrote me this way.”

Zippy flinched, pen still in hand. “I didn’t—! You weren’t supposed to…” He swallowed, voice breaking. “You were supposed to stay the villain.”

Arrows Couture pirouetted between them, wings scattering confetti hearts. “Villain? Lover? Darling, what’s the difference when the camera adores you?” He slipped behind Stella , resting his jeweled hands on her shoulders. “Look at her. She was never meant for smokey back alleys and bullet shells. She was meant for this—” He snapped his fingers.

The runway dissolved into a moonlit garden. Strings swelled. Fireflies blinked in perfect formation, spelling out KISS ME across the hedge walls.

Stella  gasped, her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled at her sides.

Blade reached for her hand, his eyes raw, exposed. “Stella … maybe we can—”

“Don’t you dare,” Zippy barked, stumbling onto the garden path. His sequined tux squeaked, absurd in the glow of the romance set. “She’s not yours. She’s mine. My character. My—” He stopped himself, heat rushing to his ears.

Stella  turned, her gaze sharp despite the gown’s shimmer. “Your what, Zip?”

Zippy’s mouth opened. The words were right there. Three tiny ones. But they jammed in his throat, locking tight. His lips worked uselessly.

Arrows Couture laughed, throwing his head back, the sound ricocheting through the garden like silver bells dipped in venom. “Oh, delicious! The boy author who can’t say the words his own story demands. Darling, this is why the Ghostwriter adores me.”

Above, thunder cracked. Letters scrawled across the clouds in jagged italics:

“HE CAN’T EVEN WRITE LOVE.”

Stella  flinched, her hand slipping half into Blade’s.

“No!” Zippy lunged forward, his pen slicing through the air. Words trailed behind it, glowing ink that tried to stitch the scene back into noir: dark alleys, rain-slick pavement, smoke curling from neon signs.

But Arrows Couture countered with a snap, weaving rose petals and starlight into the gaps. Blade was caught in the crossfire, his body flickering, his face twisted in agony as half his lines turned to confessions and half to threats.

“Stop it!” Stella  shouted, pulling free of both of them. “You’re tearing me apart!”

The garden shivered. The hedge walls folded like paper, crumpling into fragments of other worlds — a ballroom here, a battlefield there, a café table half-dissolved into mist.

And high above, the Ghostwriter’s laughter scrawled across the sky in bold caps:

“WHOSE STORY IS IT, REALLY?”

Zippy froze, pen clutched so hard his knuckles went white. For the first time, he realized the answer wasn’t obvious.

Stella  looked at him. Not at Blade, not at Couture, not at the sky. Him. Her eyes were bright with both hurt and hope.

“Then write it,” she whispered. “Write the truth.”

Zippy’s breath caught. His pen shook. The three words burned like fire in his throat.

But nothing came out.

The garden dissolved into dust. In its place rose a new set: a dusty street straight out of a Western. Boards creaked, saloon doors swung, tumbleweeds rolled. Only instead of guns, the townsfolk carried pens, quills, and typewriters strapped to their hips.

Stella  stood in the middle of the street, her gown fluttering into cowgirl leather, then back to silver silk, then to trench coat again — unable to settle, torn between tropes.

At one end of the street, Zippy. Sequined tux, pen trembling in his hand.

At the other, Blade. Half-noir assassin, half-heartthrob-in-a-starry-tux, eyes blazing.

Above them, scrawled across the fake desert sky:

“OK CORRAL: FINAL DRAFT.”

The crowd whispered, faceless silhouettes with cameras for eyes.

Arrows Couture drifted to the balcony of the saloon, sipping champagne through a straw. “Place your bets, darlings. Will it be doom or desire?”

The bell tolled once.

Zippy’s knees nearly buckled. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He tried to lift his pen like a pistol, but his grip shook.

Blade spun his own pen with impossible grace, pointing it straight at Zippy. “You can’t write her into love if you don’t know how to feel it yourself.”

The bell tolled twice.

Stella  turned, her voice cutting the silence. “Don’t fight over me. Fight for me.”

The bell tolled a third time. Silence stretched, unbearable.

Zippy’s throat burned. The words trembled at the tip of his tongue. Three little words.

Before he could speak, a voice cut in from behind him.

“Wow. Boys really are pathetic.”

Everyone froze.

Down the street came a girl in a cookie-seller sash, dragging a cart full of fortune cookies. She strolled like she owned the place, crunching on a shortbread. She stopped at Zippy’s side, rolling her eyes at his sequins.

“Cookie Girl,” Zippy whispered, stunned.

She popped another cookie in her mouth. “Took you long enough, doofizz. I told you — turn the message over. There’s always another side.” She shoved a cookie into his hand. “Read it. Out loud. Before Sparkle-Jawline over there rewrites your girlfriend into his diary.”

Blade sneered. “Stay out of this.”

Cookie Girl smirked, crossing her arms. “Or what? You’ll bedazzle me to death? Please. I eat clichés for breakfast.”

The crowd gasped. Above, the words “EAT CLICHÉS FOR BREAKFAST” scrawled in huge glowing font. Cookie Girl threw a finger at the sky. “Yeah, I said it. And I’ll say it again. This guy—” she jabbed Zippy in the ribs with a cookie “—is the only one here dumb enough to beat you, Ghosty. Because he’s too stupid to quit.”

Zippy blinked, pen shaking. “I’m… supposed to take that as a compliment?”

“Dense as my big brother,” Cookie Girl muttered. “But yeah, doofizz. Now open the damn cookie.”

The bell tolled a final time. The street vibrated. Blade raised his pen, eyes narrowing. Stella  held her breath.

Zippy cracked the cookie. Inside, glowing faint:

“Shoot with the truth.”

He looked up. The Ghostwriter’s laughter rolled like thunder. Blade fired first, words streaking across the sky:

“She deserves better!”

The letters slammed into Zippy, knocking him back a step.

Zippy staggered, lifted his pen, and shouted the only thing that came to mind:

“I love—”

The word fractured, letters scattering. The Ghostwriter twisted it midair, warping it into:

“I LOST.”

The crowd roared. Blade smirked. Stella ’s face crumpled.

Cookie Girl facepalmed so hard it echoed. “Boys…” she muttered. “Always choke.”

But in Zippy’s eyes, something shifted. For the first time, he didn’t look humiliated. He looked furious.

His grip on the pen tightened. “No,” he whispered. “Not this time.”

Chapter 6: Ermit The Frog

The rejection letters lay in drifts, soaking up the rain until the streets looked like a pulpy graveyard. Zippy sat in the middle of it, head hung, tuxedo clinging heavy to his skin. The neon lights of Ghostwriter’s world flickered above him like cruel laughter, every sign another NO.

He pulled one letter from the pile and read it again. Derivative. Unsellable. Not original.

His hands trembled. His throat burned. “Maybe… maybe they’re right. Maybe I am nothing.”

The words fell flat, swallowed by the soggy silence. Stella ’s silhouette blurred in the distance, her arm linked with Blade’s as she leaned into him for warmth. Each step she took away from him pressed another rejection into Zippy’s chest.

“Pathetic,” the Ghostwriter’s voice oozed from the clouds, smug as Comic Sans graffiti.

Zippy curled into himself, hugging his knees. “Maybe I should stop trying. Just… stop.”

That’s when a wet splat hit his shoulder.

He looked up. A frog — squat, green, eyes a little too bulgy, puppet seams showing under the rain — flopped down onto the pile of rejection mush beside him. It smelled faintly of swamp water and sarcasm.

The frog adjusted a crooked felt collar and croaked, “Name’s Ermit. With an E. Legal reasons. Don’t sue.”

Zippy blinked. “What… what do you want?”

Ermit smirked, wiping rain off his bulbous nose. “What do I want? To stop watchin’ you drown in soggy Kleenex letters, kid. You think you’re special, cryin’ over one rejection? Pfft. Try being a green felt puppet when the orange guy sends ICE agents ‘cause Big Bird couldn’t cough up golden eggs for a quid pro quo.”

Zippy blinked again. “…what?”

“Exactly!” Ermit snapped, slapping his webbed hand against Zippy’s knee. “You see me floppin’ in the mud, weepin’ over canceled shows and copyright lawsuits? No. I sing songs. I keep hurlin’ myself outta swamps. I put on the damn show.”

Zippy stammered, “But I—”

Ermit’s eyes bugged wide. “No buts. You got a pen, don’tcha? You got words. You think love stories win on clean scripts and perfect pitches? Nah. They win ‘cause someone gets up after the Ghost shreds ‘em and writes it again. Louder. Messier. Truer.”

The frog leaned in close, his felt nose almost touching Zippy’s. His voice dropped low, guttural, the rain hissing between every word.

“Get. Up. And. Write. The. Show.”

Zippy’s breath caught. Something stirred in his chest. Not victory. Not yet. But a spark.

He stood, soggy letters falling off him like dead skin. His hand tightened around the pen. His jaw clenched. For the first time, his knees didn’t buckle.

Ermit gave him a sloppy salute, then flopped backward into the muck. “Good lad. Now make it sing.”

In the distance, Stella  turned her head — just for a moment — as if she felt the shift.

The Ghostwriter’s chuckle cracked the sky. But Zippy didn’t sit back down. Not this time.

For a fleeting second, Zippy thought he was winning.

The rain eased. His pen pulsed in his palm, words shimmering like they might finally bend reality back his way.

He scribbled hard into the air: Truth. Courage. Originality.

The neon cracked, colors splintering into something brighter. Stella  stood there, alone for once, her gown muted back into something closer to the trench coat he remembered. She looked at him, just him.

Zippy’s chest swelled. This was it. The moment. He took a shaky step forward.

“Ez,” he whispered, his voice rough but honest. “I—”

Then the world snapped.

A dozen drones buzzed overhead, camera lenses glaring like cyclopean eyes. Screens lit up across skyscrapers, broadcasting a perfect close-up of Stella … in Heartthrob’s arms.

It wasn’t happening here. It was happening there.

A stitched-together scene, slick with edits, shot from angles Zippy had never written.

On every billboard, Stella ’s lips pressed softly against Heartthrob’s. The kiss glowed cinematic, golden, perfect.

And then the audio dropped in.

A hot mic moment — Heartthrob’s voice, velvet smooth, crystal clear:

“You’re everything I ever wanted in my true love. Not like him. He can’t even say three little words.”

Zippy froze, gutted.

The city roared with laughter. Hashtags exploded across the sky like fireworks:

TrueLove ThreeLittleWords BetterThanZippy

Stella  turned at the sound, her brow furrowed, confusion flickering. But the crowd didn’t care. The kiss replayed on loop, Heartthrob’s declaration etched into every neon screen.

Zippy staggered backward, his pen slipping from his grip. The ground rippled with memes — his face plastered under captions: Loser. Clown. Not Enough.

His chest cracked wide open. The pen hit the ground. His knees followed.

Overhead, the Ghostwriter’s laughter rattled every window. Bold, cruel, italicized across the sky:

“This is the story everyone wants. And you? You’re just a footnote.”

Stella ’s mouth opened, as if to speak. But the world drowned her out.

Zippy collapsed fully, face in the muck, tears and rain indistinguishable. The sting burned through him deeper than any rejection. This wasn’t just losing Stella .

It was losing the story itself.

Zippy lay in the muck, the world still flashing the betrayal on every sky-screen.

Heartthrob’s kiss. Heartthrob’s words. His failure.

A shadow fell across him. Black boots planted in the mud. Blade.

“Get up,” Blade said. His voice was low, sharp as broken glass.

Zippy groaned. “Leave me. I’m done.”

“You’re not done. You’re pathetic but not done.” Blade crouched, grabbed Zippy’s collar, and yanked him up until their faces were inches apart. “You think the Ghostwriter wins because it’s stronger? No. It wins because you fold. Every. Damn. Time.”

Zippy tried to shove him off. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand everything.” Blade’s eyes burned. “You hide behind excuses. Behind clichés. Behind flowers and chocolates and sad little tropes. That’s not writing. That’s begging. You want Stella ? Then fight for her. With something real. Or stay here in the mud and be forgotten.”

The words hit hard. Too hard. Zippy collapsed again, Blade’s grip slipping. The mud sucked him back down, pulling at his knees, his ribs, his chest.

Blade spat into the dirt. “Doofizz.” He turned, his coat whipping behind him as he vanished into the storm.

Zippy was alone again. Broken. Empty.

Until a shadow leaned into his vision.

A hand. Holding cookies.

“Boys are so…” Cookie Girl shook her head, sighing as though she’d been waiting years for this.

Zippy groaned. “No. Not now. I don’t need your riddles. Or your cookies.”

She smirked. “I wasn’t gonna give it. But you brought it up, doofizz.” She bonked the cookie on his forehead. It crumbled, sugar dust sprinkling down.

“Ouch!” He rubbed the spot. “I already look stupid enough—what was that for?”

She crouched, her grin sharp. “What makes a good writer, doofizz?”

Zippy’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. Not quitting?”

“Exactly.” She smashed another cookie on his head, crumbs tumbling into his hair. “You do not give in to agents who don’t write.”

Zippy sighed. “I know, I’m—”

“That’s right. You’re a great writer.” She leaned close, balancing another cookie in her palm. “Here, let me show you…” She tapped it against his head and laughed as it split open.

Inside: nothing. No glowing slip of paper. No message.

He blinked. “And…?”

She smirked. “Guess boys are so dense. Do you want me to show you again? Drrrr…”

It took him a beat. Then another.

“Oh…” he breathed.

“Yeahhh,” she said, rising, brushing crumbs from her skirt. “Show. Not tell.”

Her laughter trailed into the storm, warm and mocking all at once, leaving Zippy staring at the crumbs in his lap. For the first time, his heart wasn’t broken. It was burning.

The storm of genres raged, a carousel of tropes spinning faster, each one trying to swallow him whole.

Zippy pushed through it — mud-streaked tux, cookie crumbs still in his hair, his fists clenched.

He saw her.

Stella .

Bound in lace that shimmered between ballgown glamour and detective grit, her face pale beneath the flood of camera flashes.

“Stella !” His voice cracked but didn’t falter.

She looked up. Conflicted. Torn. But her eyes still found his.

Zippy’s chest hammered. Cookie Girl’s words echoed like a dare: Show. Not tell.

Not I love you. Not please don’t leave. Just—

He stepped forward. Closer. Close enough to feel her breath hitch, close enough to let silence do what words could not.

He leaned in.

The world held still. Even the Ghostwriter’s fonts froze midair.

Her eyes widened. For the first time since all of this began, Stella  looked unafraid.

She closed her eyes. Waiting.

Their lips almost touched—

—and the sky ripped open.

“NOT YET.”

The Ghostwriter’s thunder shook the ground.

From the split came a swarm: minions in matching villain uniforms, half pulp-gangster, half Saturday morning cartoon. They cackled as they stormed the stage, ropes coiling like snakes.

Stella  screamed as they dragged her back, binding her wrists in shimmering chains of italic font.

“No!” Zippy lunged, but a wall of minions blocked his path. His fists connected with cardboard faces, his kicks tore through paper bodies, but for every one that crumpled another rose.

Stella ’s voice broke through the chaos. “Zip—don’t stop—”

But she was already hoisted onto the saddle of a crimson stallion conjured from the trope bin. The rider — a faceless minion with a cowboy hat — yanked the reins hard.

The horse reared. Lightning split the clouds.

Then, with Stella  bound, her hair whipping in the wind, the rider spurred it forward.

The Ghostwriter laughed, bold letters branding the sky:

“THE DAMSEL IN DISTRESS.”

“RIDE INTO THE SUNSET.”

The stallion bolted. Stella ’s cry echoed, fading as the horizon swallowed her whole.

Zippy collapsed to his knees, mud and cookie crumbs mixing under him. His lips still tingled with the kiss that never happened.

The Ghostwriter’s final taunt scrawled in dripping ink above:

“Try harder, lover boy. She’s in another draft.”

Chapter 7: The Midnight Chase

The sunset swallowed her.

Stella ’s cries still echoed in his ears — bound, helpless, dragged into the glowing cliché horizon on horseback. A damsel in distress, ripped from his pages and rewritten into someone else’s story.

And then it spiraled.

Zippy Zephyr’s eyes snapped open to the cacophony of screeching tires and blaring horns. His hands gripped a steering wheel he didn’t remember taking hold of, knuckles white against the black leather. The world outside the windshield was a blur of neon lights and shadowy figures, all racing past at breakneck speed.

His breath hitched. What just happened? Wasn’t I—

“What the—” he gasped, jerking the wheel to avoid a collision with a taxi that materialized out of nowhere. “How did I get here?”

As if in answer, a gust of wind swirled through the car, bringing with it a flurry of papers. They whipped around his head, some sticking to the windshield, others flowing out the open windows. He snatched one midair, nearly losing control of the vehicle in the process.

His eyes widened as he recognized his own handwriting scrawled across the page:

“The midnight streets of the city blurred into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow as Zippy Zephyr swerved through traffic, his pursuers hot on his heels. He had no idea how he’d gotten into this mess, but he knew one thing for certain – if he didn’t lose them soon, it would be the end of the line.”

“No, no, no,” Zippy muttered, tossing the page aside. “This can’t be happening. I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming.”

“I assure you, you’re not dreaming,” a cool, feminine voice said from beside him.

Zippy yelped, nearly sideswiping a parked car as he turned to find a woman sitting in his passenger seat. She was strikingly beautiful, with piercing green eyes and long, dark hair that seemed to float around her face as if she were underwater.

“Who are you?” Zippy demanded. “How did you get in here?”

The woman’s lips curled into an enigmatic smile. “I’m Stella  Knight. And I’ve always been here, Zippy. You just haven’t noticed me until now.”

But it wasn’t her. Not the Stella  stolen from him. This was… a version. A rewrite. His Stella , overwritten by the Ghostwriter.

Before Zippy could respond, a bullet shattered the rear window, sending shards of glass flying through the car. Stella  didn’t even flinch.

“You might want to focus on driving,” she said calmly. “They’re gaining on us.”

Zippy’s head spun as he tried to process the situation. He was in a car chase, being shot at, with a mysterious woman who seemed completely unfazed by the danger. And somehow, it all seemed to be straight out of his own manuscript.

Except he hadn’t written this. Not like this.

He glanced down and froze. A canvas bag sat between his legs, heavy, rattling with every swerve. He yanked it open.

Fortune cookies. Dozens of them.

Zippy blinked. “Why do I have these?”

A slip of paper peeked from a cracked shell: “Show, not tell.”

He felt his throat tighten. That mantra. His mantra. But he didn’t know why anymore.

As he swerved to avoid another hail of bullets, the world around him seemed to ripple and shift. For a moment, the gritty urban landscape melted away, replaced by a sun-drenched beach. Zippy found himself behind the wheel of a convertible, Stella  now wearing a flowing sundress, her hair tied back with a scarf.

“What’s happening?” Zippy asked, his voice cracking with panic.

“The genres are bleeding together,” Stella  explained, her tone now light and breezy. “You’re having trouble maintaining narrative consistency.”

Before Zippy could question her further, the world shifted again. They were back in the midnight city, but now Zippy was dressed in a tuxedo, Stella  in an elegant evening gown. Romantic music swelled from nowhere as rose petals began to swirl through the air.

“Oh no,” Zippy groaned, shoulders sagging. “Not a romance scene. I’m terrible at writing those!”

As if on cue, the rose petals burst into flames, and the music screeched to a discordant halt. The car chase resumed with renewed intensity, their pursuers now a mix of shadowy gangsters and tuxedo-clad secret agents.

“You need to get control of the narrative,” Stella  said, her voice shifting between sultry and urgent with each genre flicker. “Before it’s too late.”

Zippy gritted his teeth, trying to concentrate on the road ahead. But with each turn, the city seemed to morph and change. One moment they were racing through narrow cobblestone streets, the next navigating a futuristic neon metropolis.

“I can’t control it!” Zippy shouted as reality continued to warp around them. “I don’t know how we get out of this!”

“Then perhaps it’s time to let go,” Stella  suggested, her enigmatic smile never wavering.

As if responding to her words, the car suddenly burst through a barrier of manuscript pages, sending a whirlwind of text and half-formed ideas swirling around them. Zippy slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. They were careening towards the edge of… nothing.

The car teetered on the brink of an endless void, pages of unwritten story fluttering into the abyss. Zippy’s heart pounded as he realized the truth – he was trapped inside his own unfinished manuscript, teetering on the edge of unwritten possibilities.

“What happens now?” he asked, turning to Stella .

But she was gone, leaving only a single rose petal on the seat where she had been.

A deep, menacing chuckle echoed through the void, sending chills down Zippy’s spine. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Now?” the voice said, dripping with malevolent amusement. “Now, dear Zippy, the real story begins.”

Zippy recognized that voice. It was the voice he’d imagined for his antagonist, the shadowy figure known only as Blade.

But he’d never written that character into existence. Not yet.

The void convulsed, the pages of his manuscript twisting, smearing, overwritten. The Blade was no longer just a villain on the page. The Ghostwriter had given him life.

And Stella  — his Stella  — was being rewritten line by line into someone else’s heroine.

Zippy clutched the bag of fortune cookies like a lifeline. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what they meant. He only knew the Ghostwriter feared them.

As the laughter grew louder, the void began to shift and churn. Zippy could only watch in horror as the blank pages swirled around him, ready to draw him into a story he no longer controlled.

The last thing Zippy saw before the whiteness engulfed him was a single line appearing on a blank page floating past:

“CHOOSE YOUR GENRE, OR BE ERASED.”

The sunset was still burned into his eyes — Stella  bound, stolen away, riding into the cliché horizon. Zippy woke from that image in a sweat, still clutching the canvas bag of fortune cookies he didn’t remember packing.

They smelled… warm. Sweet. A scent that shouldn’t exist inside a manuscript void. Against all reason, his stomach growled.

He cracked one open. Steam curled out as if the cookie had just come from the oven. A tiny slip of paper slid free and stuck between his teeth. Zippy tugged it out, snorted at the words:

“Kiss someone already.”

“Nice joke,” he muttered, flicking it toward the trash.

But then the scrap caught in the light. On the opposite side, faint handwriting bled through, invisible until the angle changed.

“Truth waits on the other side.”

The words shimmered, then dissolved.

Before he could process it, the world lurched. His bag of cookies spilled, pages of unwritten drafts fluttering out with them. He stumbled — and landed in a quaint coffee shop.

Soft jazz played. The hiss of steaming milk. Sunlight warmed wood-paneled walls. A bell chimed above the door.

And there she was.

Stella  Knight.

Not bound, not rewritten into some damsel. Just… Stella . Flowing sundress, hair loose, catching golden light like it belonged there.

Zippy’s chest clenched. His heart didn’t just skip — it tripped over itself.

“Perfect,” he whispered, palms slick. “Rom-com. Nothing dangerous ever happens in a rom-com.”

He wiped his hands on his jacket, stepped forward, tried to summon charm. His voice cracked anyway:

“Fancy meeting you here. Can I… buy you a coffee?”

Stella  tilted her head, amused. “Weren’t we just in a car chase?”

“Continuity issues,” Zippy said quickly. “It’s fine. I can fix it.”

Before he could try again, chaos kicked the door in.

A portly man with crooked wings stumbled in, arguing with a toga-clad woman wielding a bent bow. “I told you, Cupid, your aim is off!”

“Me? You shot the barista, not me!”

Zippy blinked. Cupids. A whole gaggle of them. Shuffling into the café like they’d wandered out of a bad parody. Behind them, a therapist with horn-rimmed glasses waved a clipboard.

“Everyone, back to the session room. We need to process appropriate arrow usage in public spaces.”

The Cupids shuffled out, still bickering, leaving Zippy red-faced. Stella  rolled her eyes and headed for the door.

“Wait!” Zippy lunged after her — and tripped. His hand slapped down on a wall lever.

The café shimmered. In seconds, it became the bridge of a spaceship. Stars streaked by the window. Cupids reappeared, now in silver jumpsuits, still in therapy.

“No, no, no!” Zippy yanked a futuristic tablet, scrawling words across the glowing screen. For a heartbeat the café snapped back — then twisted again into a medieval throne room. Stella , now in a jeweled gown, sat upon a golden seat.

“Your Majesty,” Zippy tried, bowing clumsily, “can I… maybe… get you coffee sometime?”

Her smirk nearly killed him. Then the room collapsed again. Noir blinds. Rain at the windows. Jazz. A detective’s office.

Zippy slumped against a filing cabinet, groaning. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

Stella , now trench-coat chic, put a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe stop trying to control everything.”

And then—bang! The Cupids barged in again, therapist lecturing, one nervy wing-crooked fellow blurting:

“Would you like to get coffee? Or slay a dragon? Or solve a mystery? I’m flexible on genre.”

Zippy buried his face. “Kill me now.”

Reality hiccuped again — this time into a buzzing alien cantina. Tentacled bartenders slung drinks. Cupids in space-suits held therapy circle in the corner.

Stella , now green-skinned with antennae, leaned close, eyes glittering. “It’s certainly not boring.”

Zippy almost laughed. Almost. Until a scrap of paper materialized on the bar in front of him.

His blood iced.

He unfolded it slowly.

“Your attempts at controlling this narrative are futile and disruptive. Cease immediately, or face the consequences. — The Blade.”

The note flared into fire, scorch-marking the counter.

Stella ’s antennae drooped. “That’s not good.”

Zippy swallowed hard. “What have I gotten myself into?”

The cantina dissolved into darkness. Only her voice lingered, soft but steady:

“Zippy… stop trying to write the perfect story. Start living it instead.”

The words pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. And somewhere, the taste of cookie crumbs lingered — sweet, sharp, daring him to flip every fortune over and face what waited on the other side.

Chapter 8: The Blade’s Shadow

Zippy Zephyr stumbled through a kaleidoscope of worlds, each more disorienting than the last. One second, he was dodging laser blasts on a gleaming space station. The next, crouching behind a dumpster in a rain-slick noir alley. His wardrobe couldn’t even keep up — spacesuit, trench coat, toga, then back again.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, tugging at the brim of a fedora he was pretty sure hadn’t been there five minutes ago. “I can’t even keep track of my own hat anymore.”

A voice slid into the chaos, cool and maddeningly unshaken.

“Having trouble, darling?”

Stella  Knight materialized beside him, just as calm in a spacesuit as in a trench coat. She adjusted her hat like the shifting genres were nothing more than wardrobe changes.

Zippy’s heart stuttered. He didn’t care which draft she was from anymore — noir detective, rom-com heroine, space princess — it was all Stella . And for the first time, the urge to just blurt it out burned in his chest. Was it love? A desperate need for approval? Just a writer clinging to his only anchor in a collapsing story? He didn’t know. He just knew he wanted to kiss her.

Stella ’s smile was unreadable. “You might want to try going with the flow.”

“I’d love to,” Zippy snapped, “but the flow keeps changing direction like a drunk octopus on roller skates.”

Before she could reply, a cultured voice cut through the air.

“An apt metaphor, Mr. Zephyr. Though I’d say it’s closer to alphabetizing a library during an earthquake.”

The words slithered across the castle walls — yes, they were suddenly in a castle now, tapestries swaying in the draft.

From the shadows stepped a figure. Tall, immaculate. An impeccable suit pressed so sharp it looked like it might cut the air itself. In his hand, something glinted: not a sword, but a pen. Red. Humming.

Stella  stiffened. “Zippy… we need to go.”

The man smiled. All teeth, no warmth. “At last. The author who thinks he’s the hero.”

Zippy’s mouth went dry. “Who… who are you?”

The man stepped forward, each stride erasing a little more of the castle wall behind him. “I am The Blade. Editor extraordinaire. Custodian of order. The hand that corrects… abominations.”

Zippy bristled. “Hey! This manuscript is a work in progress.”

“Yes,” The Blade said, twirling the pen like a rapier. “Progress akin to a drunken sloth attempting the Macarena. Your chaos has gone on long enough.”

With a flick of his wrist, the pen slashed through the air. The walls bled ink, torches guttering out in a hiss of red corrections.

“Run!” Stella  grabbed Zippy’s arm. Together they dove through a tapestry that rippled like water.

They tumbled through worlds — a detective’s office with blinds casting stripes of shadow, a spaceship bridge blinking with starlight, a beachside wedding with violins shrieking in place of seagulls. Always, The Blade pursued. His pen cut across reality like an executioner’s sword, leaving trails of cross-outs and margin notes that dissolved everything they touched.

They skidded into a 1950s diner. Neon buzzed overhead. The jukebox crooned a sad ballad. For one fragile moment, it felt stable.

“What’s happening?” Zippy panted, clutching the counter.

Stella ’s eyes were sharp now. Nervous. “He’s trying to edit us out of existence. You’re chaos, Zip. And chaos is the one thing he can’t allow.”

A voice oozed from the jukebox speakers: smooth, cruel.

“Is it really your story, Mr. Zephyr? Or are you merely another character — one who’s forgotten his place?”

The jukebox flickered. The Blade stepped out, immaculate as ever. The neon bent toward him like it wanted to obey. Behind him, Zippy caught flashes of other writers — hollow-eyed figures trapped in manuscript prisons, scribbling endlessly only for their words to be red-lined out of existence.

Stella  stepped between them, her trench coat flaring like a shield. “You can’t cage creativity.”

The Blade laughed, low and sharp. “My dear, it’s not a cage. It’s structure. Without it, stories collapse. Without me, you don’t exist at all.”

Zippy’s mind reeled. If he was trapped in his own story, maybe he could still write himself a way out. He grabbed a menu and scribbled with a stolen pen.

The diner shuddered. For a moment, it reshaped into a superhero comic panel — Zippy in a garish costume, cape flapping, Stella  suddenly a femme fatale.

“Oh, come on,” Zippy groaned.

The Blade stepped into frame as a supervillain, the red pen now a crackling energy blade. “Pathetic. Embracing absurdity won’t save you.”

Stella  whipped throwing knives from nowhere. “Zip — whatever happens, don’t let him—”

Her voice cut off. The Blade slashed a single red line across the panel. A void yawned open beneath their feet.

Zippy’s grip slipped. Stella ’s hand tore from his.

And as he tumbled into darkness, the last thing he heard was The Blade’s satisfied whisper: “End of chapter.”

Zippy Zephyr sat in a hard plastic chair that squeaked every time he shifted. The Cupid Rehabilitation Center’s group therapy room looked like it had been decorated by an interior designer on a sugar rush: motivational posters declaring “Love Conquers All” hung beside anatomical heart diagrams, while glitter still clung to the floor from last week’s Valentine’s workshop disaster.

Around him, a cluster of Cupids slumped in various states of burnout. One had an eyepatch and a quiver of snapped arrows. Another idly sharpened a bent bow. A third picked heart-shaped acne scabs with the pointed end of his quill.

“Welcome, everyone, to today’s session,” chirped Dr. Lovewell, her curls gray and her heart-shaped glasses sliding down her nose. “Let’s start with our affirmation: I am more than my arrows.”

The Cupids muttered it halfheartedly.

Zippy didn’t. He was too busy scribbling notes on the back of a napkin, chewing the end of a fortune cookie like it might contain wisdom instead of crumbs.

“Zippy,” Dr. Lovewell said, her tone both kind and threatening, “would you like to share with the group?”

His head jerked up. “Oh, I’m not… I mean, I’m just trying to write the perfect ending to get out of here.”

A groan went through the room.

“Not another one,” the eyepatch Cupid muttered.

“Go on, honey,” Dr. Lovewell coaxed.

Zippy cleared his throat. “So, it ends like this: And they all lived happily ever after. The End. Then I wake up in bed, realizing it was all a dream, but with newfound appreciation for life and love.”

The Cupids erupted in groans and jeers.

“That’s more cliché than a Valentine’s Day card from a gas station,” one Cupid scoffed.

Zippy bristled, about to argue, when the world fractured around him. The therapy room shattered like glass, multiplying into parallel realities.

He was in a diner.

And a space station.

And a medieval tournament.

And always, Stella  was there — shifting roles, detective in one, princess in another, pirate queen in a third.

“Congratulations,” Stella ’s voices overlapped across realities. “Parallel plot threads. Impressive for someone who can’t even say three little words.”

Zippy flushed. He opened his mouth—

—and a sharp thunk cut him off. A fortune cookie bounced off his head, splitting open in his lap.

He blinked. “What the—”

A small figure plopped down beside him in the diner version of reality. She was barefoot, holding a paper bag bulging with cookies, hair tied up in lopsided pigtails. She looked about twelve, with a smirk sharp enough to slice his pride.

“About time,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you, doofizz.”

Zippy gawked. “Who—”

“Cookie Girl,” she said, rolling her eyes like it was obvious. “Also known as your baby sister. And also known as the only one around here with a brain.” She shoved a cookie into his hand. “Eat.”

“I don’t—”

“Eat. Now.”

He bit it reluctantly. The paper inside stuck to his teeth. He pulled it free, chuckled at the fortune, and went to flick it into the trash—until he saw the back. Words crawled across it like fresh ink:

‘Every rejection makes you better. But lose her, and no draft saves you.’

Zippy froze.

Cookie Girl smirked. “Well? Are you gonna let her slip away just because you’re scared she’ll reject you like all those agents did? Boys are so dense.”

“I’m not dense,” Zippy muttered weakly.

“Dense,” she confirmed, whacking him with another cookie. Thwack.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For thinking love works like a book deal. Idiot. You don’t submit three chapters and a query letter, you show up. You show her.”

Zippy rubbed his head. “I look stupid enough as it is…”

Cookie Girl grinned. “Exactly. And you’re still here. You didn’t quit after the agents said no. You dug in. Wrote better. That’s why you’re still standing, doofizz. That’s what makes a writer.”

He swallowed. For once, he didn’t have a comeback.

She held up another cookie, dangling it just out of reach. “Want the next fortune?”

He hesitated.

She laughed, cracked it on his head instead, crumbs showering his lap. The strip inside was blank.

“…There’s nothing on it,” he said.

“Exactly.” She leaned close, smirk sharp and knowing. “Because this part? You have to write yourself.”

Then she vanished, the bag of cookies with her, leaving only her voice echoing faintly:

“Boys are so… dense.”

And as the worlds shifted again, Zippy realized she was right.

Zippy Zephyr’s world was a kaleidoscope gone berserk. The walls between thriller, romance, fantasy, and sci-fi had collapsed into a single swirling maelstrom of exploding tropes. A flaming arrow screamed past his head and burst into confetti hearts that rained down like ticker tape.

“This is it,” Zippy muttered, brushing neon rose petals off his jacket. “We’ve lost all control.”

Beside him, Stella  flickered — one heartbeat a noir femme fatale, the next a swashbuckling pirate queen, then a heroine in gleaming chrome armor. Through it all her gaze stayed steady, unshaken.

“Control was always an illusion,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of every archetype she embodied. “You’re only now seeing the truth.”

Zippy stared at her, pieces clicking together. “You’re not just another character. You’re the first. The original. The spark.”

Stella  smiled enigmatically, her eyes reflecting the chaos. “I am every draft you ever wrote, Zip. The spark that ignited all of this.”

Before he could respond, a voice bellowed across the void:

“Yo, word-slinger! Catch!”

A golden bow arced down through the storm. Zippy caught it clumsily, blinking up to see the dysfunctional Cupids flying overhead on what looked suspiciously like a swan glued to a UFO.

“We figured you needed backup!” one shouted, his therapy glasses slipping down his nose. “The Blade’s gone full tyrant!”

As if summoned, laughter cracked through the chaos. The Blade’s voice rolled like thunder. “You think a bag of broken-winged cherubs can stop me? I am the structure that binds this world!”

The ground rippled. Zippy staggered — then froze. Standing before him were… himself.

Noir Zippy flicked ash from a cigarette.

Space Captain Zippy saluted in silver.

Regency Zippy adjusted his cravat with visible disdain.

“Well,” Regency Zippy said dryly, “this is disconcerting.”

“Gentlemen!” Stella  snapped, commanding them all at once. “Focus. Or we all unravel.”

The fractured troupe lurched forward together, stumbling through whiplash realities: a dystopian wasteland one second, a glittering ballroom the next. Pirates swung from starship rigging. Robots performed Shakespeare to the beat of EDM.

The Cupids provided chaotic cover fire, loosing arrows that exploded into absurd effects — a rain of kittens, a sudden mariachi band, a flock of doves that swallowed a shadow-beast whole.

Zippy stared at the golden bow in his hands. Cookie Girl’s voice whispered in his head: “Don’t think like an agent. Show up. Show her.”

The bow shimmered. Became a pen. A sword. A microphone. Each blink it morphed, responding to his half-formed intent.

“He’s adapting!” The Blade’s voice lost its cool, tinged with panic. “Stop him before he learns to wield it!”

The chaos folded inward, dumping them into The Blade’s control chamber — an endless office of glowing monitors, each screen showing rewritten manuscripts. Red-pen editors slashed away, trimming, erasing, “fixing.”

“This ends now,” Zippy said, though his voice cracked around the edges. He raised the bow-pen-sword-microphone… and it became a conductor’s baton.

Stella  stepped to his side, her hand brushing his. “Don’t fight it. Conduct it.”

Zippy’s hand trembled, then steadied. He slashed the baton through the air. Reality responded — sparks of narrative energy swirled, genres blending into impossible hybrids.

The Blade appeared, looming, his form flickering between stern critics and smug editors through history. His red pen bled malice.

“You fool,” he thundered. “Without structure, everything falls apart!”

“Maybe,” Zippy said, his voice steadier now, “but without chaos, nothing new is born.”

He brought the baton down. The monitors shattered, plotlines spilling free. Cupids whooped from above, pelting the shadows with exploding therapy arrows.

For one heartbeat, Zippy believed they’d won.

But as the light faded, The Blade’s pen remained — sharp, humming, defiant. His voice hissed through the static:

“This isn’t your triumph, Mr. Zephyr. This is only your first rejection letter.”

The monitors snapped back on, one line in bold red ink filling every screen at once:

“KISS HER OR LOSE HER.”

Stella ’s hand was still in his. Zippy’s throat tightened.

Cookie Girl’s voice echoed faintly, smug and relentless: “Show, don’t tell, doofizz.”

Zippy Zephyr stood at the epicenter of literary chaos, the manuscript world tearing itself apart — genres clashing, tropes mutating, plot devices raining down like hail. And yet, for the first time, he felt calm.

“You know what?” he said, his voice steadier than it had ever been. “I’m done fighting the chaos. I’m going to use it.”

He reached up, plucked a noir fedora from the maelstrom, holstered a sci-fi blaster next to a medieval dagger. “If you can’t beat ’em, remix ’em.”

Stella  materialized beside him, radiant and shifting through incarnations — princess, assassin, detective, goddess. Her gaze locked on his. “Took you long enough, doofizz.”

He grinned. “Guess I needed five chapters to grow a spine.”

They pushed forward together through collapsing genres: cyberpunk towers splitting into Tolkienesque forests, ballrooms detonating into saloons, space stations crashing into pirate ships. Behind them, the Cupids swooped in on their swan-UFO, firing glitter-bomb arrows.

Finally, they reached the control chamber — The Blade’s fortress. Screens pulsed with rewrites, typewriters clacked without hands. At the center stood The Blade, immaculate as ever, his red pen dripping malice.

“You dare defy me?” he thundered. “Without order, you are nothing. Kiss her, lose her, fail her — it doesn’t matter. I own the ending.”

Zippy’s hand tightened around the golden bow. But before he could answer, something sweet tugged at his pocket. A smell — sugar, vanilla, nostalgia.

A cookie.

He bit it, crunch echoing through the chamber. Between his teeth was a scrap of paper. He tugged it out — blank. He almost tossed it aside, until warm breath fogged it. Letters bled in, slow and deliberate:

“Show it. Don’t say it.”

Zippy’s chest hammered. He turned to Stella .

“I…” His throat caught. Words weren’t enough. Cookie Girl’s voice mocked in his head: “Boys are so dense. Just do it.”

So he did.

He stepped forward, cupped Stella ’s face, and kissed her.

For one breathtaking heartbeat, everything froze. The chaos stilled. The genres hushed. Stella  kissed him back — tentative, electric, real.

And then—

The Blade slashed his pen through the air.

The kiss fractured, overwritten into tropes: a slow-mo Hollywood dip, then a parody montage of rom-com kisses, then replaced entirely by Lover Boy swooping in with Stella  in his arms.

Zippy staggered, lips tingling with what had been. “No—NO! That was mine!”

The Blade sneered, his form flickering into every critic Zippy had ever feared. “Yours? You’re a draft, Mr. Zephyr. One rejected kiss doesn’t make a story. It makes a footnote.”

Stella  reached for Zippy, but the narrative yanked her back into a glowing cage of clichés. Her eyes locked on his as she vanished.

Zippy dropped to his knees, the cookie still in his hand. He looked at the second side of the slip, words he hadn’t noticed before:

“Every rejection is a rewrite. Don’t stop.”

His jaw tightened. He stood, fire in his chest. “Fine. Rewrite me. Erase me. But I’ll keep showing up. I’ll always rewrite her back.”

The maelstrom roared in response. The Blade hissed. The story wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Zippy Zephyr woke with cookie crumbs stuck to his cheek and ink smears on his hands. His laptop hummed faintly on the desk, the cursor blinking like it was mocking him.

For a second, he thought it had all been a dream — the chase, the Cupids, Stella ’s kiss-that-wasn’t. Then he saw the paper scraps scattered across the floor. Cookie fortunes. Hundreds of them. Some blank. Some burned at the edges. Some covered in words that flickered like neon before fading to nothing.

On the screen, a single sentence had appeared, not typed by him:

“The kiss was a draft, nothing more. Start again.” — The Blade

Zippy’s gut twisted. The taste of Stella ’s lips lingered like a phantom. Real, but stolen.

He slammed the laptop shut. “No. Not this time.”

From the windowsill came a soft crunching sound. Cookie Girl, legs dangling, stuffing her face with the last of his fortune stash. She looked up, powdered sugar dusting her grin.

“Well, well. Look who finally figured out that kissing’s harder than writing sci-fi gunfights.”

“Not funny,” Zippy muttered.

“Of course it’s funny,” she said, flicking a crumb at him. “You kissed her. You lost her. You’re sulking. Boys are so—”

“Dense,” he sighed.

“No,” she corrected. “Dense and stubborn. Which is the only reason you’ve still got a chance.”

Zippy blinked. “A chance? She’s gone. The Blade rewrote her out.”

Cookie Girl hopped down, brushing crumbs off her hands. “Newsflash, doofizz: The Blade doesn’t write endings. He writes rejections. You? You write beginnings. And you’ve got one hell of a rewrite coming.”

Zippy’s heart kicked. A rewrite. Another shot.

He pulled open the laptop. The cursor blinked. Waiting.

Cookie Girl hopped down, brushing crumbs off her hands. “Newsflash, doofizz: The Blade doesn’t write endings. He writes rejections. You? You write beginnings. And you’ve got one hell of a rewrite coming.” Zippy’s heart kicked. A rewrite. Another shot. He pulled open the laptop. The cursor blinked. Waiting. Cookie Girl leaned over his shoulder, whispering: “Draft Zero, baby brother. Time to start Series Two.” And just like that, the words began to pour — faster, rawer, fiercer than ever before.

Chapter 9: Shell Shock

The sun rose over the lush prehistoric landscape, gleaming across Grog’s proudest treasure: a mountain of shells arranged like jewels on a stone slab. He squinted at them with the shrewd pride of a banker, chest swelling.

“Grog think today good day for trade,” he grunted. He held up a shimmering conch. “This worth two mammoths. Maybe three, if Blug desperate.”

Flicka, his sharp-eyed advisor, approached with a basket. “Morning, Grog. Fresh shells. Strong color. Tribe will like.”

“Flicka find best,” Grog agreed, stacking them carefully. “Grog’s collection now very rich.”

A commotion erupted by the caves. Blug, rival troublemaker, swaggered into the clearing, flanked by muttering tribesmen.

“Why we always trade shells?” Blug sneered. “Blug say shells too… shell-y. Need new system.”

“Shells work good,” Grog shot back, muscles tensing. “Everyone know value. No rot like fruit. No stink like fish.”

Flicka raised both hands. “Discuss at tribal meeting. No fight now.”

Blug’s eyes gleamed. He gave a slow, dangerous smile, then retreated. But Grog knew—rival plotting never ended.

The day rolled on. Trades flew: spears for shells, feathers for shells, even mammoth jerky for a spiral whelk. Grog beamed. His system worked.

Until Flicka returned from the shore, clutching something metal. Smooth, shiny, blinking.

“What that?” Grog asked, eyes narrowing.

“Not shell,” Flicka said grimly. “Not from here.”

They bent over it, puzzled. They didn’t see Blug circling back.

“Mine now!” Blug roared, grabbing fistfuls of shells and bolting.

“Blug! Thief!” Grog thundered, chasing him through the jungle. Flicka ran too, clutching the strange device.

The pursuit ended at a cliff, Blug cornered, panting. He lunged for the device. Grog’s elbow smashed into a panel. Lights flared. A whine built.

Wind screamed. Shells flew. The three cavemen clutched each other as the world tore open—

And then Zippy Zephyr fell straight into the scene, tuxedo sequins flashing like a disco ball.

“THE CUT is not about cavemen!” Zippy shrieked, skidding across the shells.

Grog gawked. “Why shiny man dance on money?”

“Hello, Creator,” purred a smooth voice. The Blade leaned against a cave painting, his tuxedo morphing into a chic animal-hide coat.

“Great,” Zippy muttered, scrambling up. “Now my worst draft is crossing over.”

The Blade flicked a shell into the air. “Primitive finance. Perfect for you—desperation, barter, humiliation. Romance through economics.”

Zippy’s wallet bulged heavy in his pocket. He yanked it open. Cards and cash were gone. In their place: slimy shells.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. My net worth is clam slime?”

The Blade smiled like a knife. “Three flint chips and a bruised mammoth bone, give or take.”

Flicka and Blug froze, staring at the chaos. But then—another voice echoed through the vortex, faint and trembling.

“Zip?”

Stella ’s ghostly outline flickered above the shells, her sundress fluttering as if caught in the same storm. “Why do I see… cavemen?”

Zippy staggered, nearly tripping again. “Ez! You’re not supposed to be in Grog’s story!”

“Your girlfriend now witness prehistoric stock exchange,” The Blade said smugly. “How intimate.”

The device screamed louder. Shells swirled into the air like confetti. Blug, ever the opportunist, held up a handful. “Blug declare shells holy! One shell for three hens! Buy now!”

The tribes cheered. Grog’s jaw dropped. “No! Grog’s system! Blug ruin everything!”

Zippy tried to steady himself, raising both arms. “Nobody panic—I’m stabilizing the economy!”

He slipped again. SPLORCH. Shells scattered like grenades, smacking Grog, Flicka, and Stella ’s flickering image.

Stella  reached out, voice breaking through the chaos. “Zip, why are you always falling?”

Zippy froze. For one dizzying heartbeat, the tuxedo, the Blade, the shells—all of it—blurred. Only Stella  remained.

“Because life without you is slippery,” he blurted, before being crushed under an avalanche of mollusks.

The Blade threw his head back, laughing. “Delicious. A confession drowned in clam guts.”

Stella ’s outline pulsed brighter for a moment. She pressed her palms to the storm. “Then don’t slip away…”

And then she was gone.

The vortex roared open. All of them—Grog, Flicka, Blug, Zippy, Stella ’s fading image—were hurled forward into blinding light, tumbling helplessly toward the next screening of that orange guy.

The blinding flash of the time machine faded, and Grog blinked into searing sunlight. Gone were the familiar grunts of tribesmen and the crackle of fire. Instead, the air rang with bells, chants, and the hum of glowing crystal towers.

“By the great mammoth’s tusk!” Grog bellowed, clutching his shell bag. “Flicka! Where are we?!”

Flicka shaded her eyes, pointing at the distant domes glittering like bubbles on a sea of sand. “If I’m not mistaken, Grog, this is MoonAtlantis. Look at those glowing spires. Whole cities made of crystal.”

Blug scrambled upright from a pile of shattered tablets. His grin spread like an oil slick. “MoonAtlantis, shmatlantis. I smell opportunity.”

Before Grog could argue, a new noise split the square:

RIP.

Zippy Zephyr staggered out from the shadow of a crystal column, still wearing his ruined sequined tux. The seat of his pants had split wide open. Sunlight bounced off his jacket, dazzling the Atlanteans like a disco ball.

“Oh no,” Zippy groaned. “I’m a sparkly metaphor in a sci-fi bazaar.”

The MoonAtlanteans shaded their eyes, muttering. One dropped his basket of glowing fruit. Another whispered, “The Shiny One has come.”

Grog squinted at Zippy. “Why shiny man keep ruining trade?”

“Because the universe hates me!” Zippy shouted, fumbling to cover himself with his jacket.

At a nearby stall, Grog proudly held up a conch shell. “Good day! Trade for this fine shell?”

The merchant stared. Then laughed so hard he nearly toppled. “Shells? Foolish stranger, we use gold and silver here. Shells are worthless.”

Grog scowled. “Not worthless! Shells always good. Shells buy mammoth! Shells buy spear!”

Zippy staggered up, seizing the moment. “Wait! These are non-fungible proto-currencies! Scarcity! Storytelling value!”

He held the shells high, but one slipped from his sweaty palm and rolled under a colossal water basin carved from crystal. He lunged after it, slipped on a fallen fruit, and slammed into the basin’s base. The whole monument tilted dangerously.

The guard captain spotted him. “You there! Halt! Where’s your trader’s license? And why is your… garment blinding my people?”

Zippy raised both hands. “This garment is a metaphor! And I don’t have a license, I have narrative purpose!”

“Then your purpose is prison,” the guard growled, seizing him.

Meanwhile, Blug had already found an audience. He flourished a handful of shells. “Gentlemen! Exotic relics from the gods themselves! Guaranteed virility, guaranteed fortune!”

The crowd murmured, coins clinked, shells vanished. Blug smirked, stuffing his pouch.

Grog gaped. “That shell-sucker stealing Grog’s business again!”

Flicka tugged his arm. “Forget Blug. Look—these laws forbid trading shells without royal permission. We’ll all be executed if we stay!”

Before Grog could respond, a croak echoed from a high crystal ledge.

A frog. Wearing a tiny crown. Carved into the stone beside it were three glowing words:

I LOVE YOU.

The frog croaked again, as if to confirm.

Zippy squinted at the inscription. “Oh no. No no no. That’s a narrative trap.”

Grog puffed his chest and tried: “I love… Grog?”

The frog blinked. The words flickered.

Flicka shook her head. “No, Grog. Say it proper.”

“Grog love?” he tried again.

The crowd leaned in. The words pulsed brighter, threatening to burn into the sky.

Zippy groaned. “Oh perfect. A cosmic love confession puzzle, and the only guy who can solve it thinks he’s in love with himself.”

“Maybe Grog is!” Blug jeered, shaking his pouch of gold.

The Blade appeared on a balcony, applauding lazily in his fur-trimmed tux. “Delicious. Self-love meets shell inflation. What a scene.”

And then—Stella ’s voice.

“Zip?”

Her image flickered in the crystal, her sundress blurred by static. “Why am I watching you make frogs teach love lessons?”

Zippy’s ears burned red. “Stella —it’s not what it looks like!”

“Looks like you’re in a caveman rom-com,” she snapped.

Stella ’s flickering hands pressed against the crystal inscription. For a moment, the words bent, reforming into ZIP LOVES EZ before glitching back to I LOVE YOU.

Zippy lurched toward her. “Ez, don’t fade. Not now!”

The frog croaked louder, like it was mocking him.

The basin finally tipped. Water gushed through the square. Cabbages, coins, shells, and Zippy alike were swept into chaos. MoonAtlanteans screamed. The frog croaked like a broken drum.

Blug clung to a barrel, shouting, “Buy algae cakes! Waterproof, famine-proof!”

The guard raised his spear. “Enough! All of you will face the High Council!”

Flicka yanked Grog and Zippy by their collars, slamming the device controls. “Time to go, before we’re executed for cabbage-backed fraud!”

The vortex swallowed them. Blug tumbled in clutching gold. Zippy spun helplessly, tux shredded, Stella ’s image fracturing in the storm.

Grog, dizzy, clutched his bag of shells to his chest. “Flicka… Grog head hurt. First shells, then gold, now love words on frog stone. Too much economy. Too much heart.”

Stella ’s voice, faint, echoed one last time through the rushing void: “Zip, figure it out—before the words choose for you.”

The Blade’s laughter trailed after them. “Oh, Zippy. You’ve turned caveman finance into slapstick romance. The meltdown has only begun.”

Chapter 10: Medieval Mayhem

The world spun and thumped Grog onto cobbles. He sniffed. Livestock. Spices. Unwashed people. Color flags flapped like angry birds. Stalls screamed with bright cloth, iron tools, and pies steaming like new volcano.

Grog clutched his shell bag and blinked. “By Great Mammoth… these people trade more than just shells.”

Flicka squinted at the banners. “Middle Ages, probably. Layers of cloth, leather, guild rules. Careful, Grog—everything has a license here.”

Blug dusted himself off, eyes already counting coins. “Forget licenses. Shiny things everywhere. Blug make fortune before lunch.”

A wall of merchants oozed over, noses raised. “Peasants,” one sniffed. “Guild quarter only. Move along.”

Grog offered a perfect conch. “Trade? Good shell for fancy thing.”

They howled with laughter. “Shells? Barbarian tokens! This is a civilized market.”

Flicka stepped in, hands up. “He means no insult. We’re travelers. Teach us your customs?”

The lead merchant preened. “Very well—apprenticeships, quotas, dues—”

Grog’s eyes glazed. “Why trade so hard? If want thing, give other thing. Simple.”

Zippy Zephyr lurched out of a haystack like a surprised pheasant, sequined tux now a mud-and-straw crime scene. He wiped straw from his tongue. Internal monologue: Okay. Feudalism. Traps. The Blade loves traps.

He reached for a string of jester bells to start a distraction, and an unseen hand smacked his wrist.

The Blade stepped from a velvet-draped stall, doublet immaculate, lace cuffs shimmering like insults. “No petty theft, Mr. Zephyr. If you break the market, do it structurally.”

Zippy hissed, “I’m crafting a narrative anomaly.”

“Then craft artfully,” The Blade purred. “Guild Master or peasant. Choose, or the story chooses you.”

A roar rose near the square’s center. Craftsmen argued with silk-robed nobles.

Blacksmith: “You can’t change quotas without the guilds!”

Noble: “We fund war. We change what we please.”

Grog stomped forward. “Why not work together? In Grog’s—eh—country, when need more things, all pitch in. Everyone win.”

Silence. Then laughter. Even the pigeons seemed to laugh.

The blacksmith slapped Grog’s shoulder. “Brave or foolish, you are.”

Flicka’s eyes sparked. “Let us mediate. New perspective.”

Zippy saw the beat. He leapt onto a cart for gravitas. His trouser hem snagged.

He windmilled.

He inverted, slow as doom.

SPLORCH.

He landed between noble and smith, demolishing a wheelbarrow full of cabbages. Green orbs pinballed across the square, bowling a monk, a goat, and three apprentices. Mud kissed Zippy’s face. He rose halfway with a flourish and immediately sank back, one shoe bubbling.

“I—I endorse the structural arguments of my associates!” he wheezed, pointing a mud-gemmed finger at Grog and Flicka. “Economists… of the Future!”

The crowd gasped as a church bell tolled. The bell didn’t hang in the tower. It sat on a frog.

On a plinth beside the guildhall, a squat stone frog blinked real eyelids. Chiseled letters glowed under it:

SAY THE THREE WORDS.

The square hushed. Even pigeons held their breath.

Flicka whispered, “A trial-stone. They use it to test oaths.”

The Blade smirked. “Oh, delectable. A medieval UX pattern: three-word oath unlocks authority.”

Zippy’s stomach fell through his shoes. “Nope.”

The frog opened a stone mouth. Its voice was a gravel choir. “Name is Ermit. Speak three words true. Market balance or tumble.”

Grog puffed his chest. “Grog do it.” He pointed proudly at Zippy. “Ziphy quick-quick. Fred come. Berney come. Teach three words.”

Two burly masons—Fred and Berney—shuffled out from behind the plinth like embarrassed mountains. They wore dusty aprons and carried chisels and a mallet the size of a hog. Fred coughed. “We… uh… we teach oath all day.”

Berney nodded solemnly. “Three words. Very hard.”

Grog beamed. “Grog ready. Words are… ‘I love Grog’.”

The frog’s eyes narrowed. The letters flickered, sputtering like a dying candle.

Flicka pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, Grog.”

Grog tried again, louder. “I. Grog. Love.”

Ermit sighed, a sound like quarry wind. “Not born on Grog land,” the frog intoned, stone throat thrumming. “I come from Flat End of the World. There, words are true or you fall off.”

Blug, already chatting up nobles, saw the hush and sensed opportunity. He hopped onto a crate. “Hear ye! Blug sells Three-Word Insurance. If oath fails, coin returns—minus guild fee, city tax, Blug tax—”

ICE—Inquisitorial Council of Enforcement—marched into the square in black surcoats, badges filed to a shine. Their captain pointed a halberd. “That frog is contraband. Seize the idol.”

Ermit croaked explosively. The plinth carved a new line by itself:

OATH FIRST. THEN LAW.

The captain bristled. “Oath, then law? Outrage!”

Fred nudged Berney. “Teach quick?”

Berney thumped the mallet into his palm like a metronome. “Say after me, Shiny Man,” he told Zippy. “I. Love. You.”

Stella  shimmered to life inside a stained-glass window over the guildhall—a glitch of sunlight that looked exactly like her. She lowered a glass-paint hand. “Zip?”

Zippy’s throat locked. Air. No words. Air again.

“Just three words,” Stella  whispered from the glass. “Tiny ones.”

The Blade leaned on the plinth, delighted. “He can’t, my dear. That’s his arc.”

ICE advanced. “By order of the Crown—surrender the frog.”

Flicka yanked Grog’s arm. “If we don’t stabilize this market with an oath, they’ll smash Ermit and jail us for oath-fraud.”

Grog squared his shoulders in front of Zippy. “Ziphy cannot say. Grog say for friend.” He faced the frog. He breathed like a bellows. “I… love… you.”

Ermit blinked. The letters glowed… and dimmed.

Grog frowned. “Grog mean it… to whole market. To tribe. To trade. To… to Ez-me person in glass.” He pointed earnestly at the window. “Grog love that she make Ziphy not stupid sometimes.”

The glow steadied, unsure.

ICE lunged. Four halberds hooked Ermit’s base.

Fred and Berney planted themselves between frog and halberds like two walls that learned stubborn from granite. Fred grunted, “Guild says oath first.” Berney echoed, “Then law.”

Blug seized the moment, selling cabbage leaves as “oath tokens.” Coins rained. A goat ate two tokens and an alderman’s hat.

Zippy swayed, mud drying like a mask. He looked up at Stella  in the glass. The band in his chest pulled tight as chainmail. Words climbed toward his tongue and died like mayflies.

He choked out, “I…” and a drumline marched past—apprentices testing kettles—swallowing the next syllables whole.

The Blade clapped, shining malice. “Timing remains a faithful friend.”

ICE heaved again. The plinth screeched.

Ermit’s stone toes scraped the edge. The frog croaked one more line into the rock:

TRUTH OR TUMBLE. FLAT WORLD WAITS.

The crowd murmured. Flat world? People made the sign of the compass.

Flicka shoved Zippy toward the plinth, fierce. “Then give any truth you can say. Not the one you can’t.”

Zippy’s pulse hammered. He raised both hands, not to the frog, but to the people. “I can’t say the words you want.” He swallowed. “But I can say this: I won’t leave her—” he flinched at Stella ’s silhouette “—or him—” he grabbed Grog’s shoulder “—or this ridiculous frog to ICE.”

He pointed straight at the captain. “And I love…” The word shattered in his mouth. He pivoted hard. “—risk. I love risk.” He flailed for cover. “And… consequences. And… cabbages.”

The crowd blinked.

Then every cabbage in the square—still rolling from Zippy’s earlier crash—suddenly mattered.

“Cabbages for pledge!” Fred bellowed, catching on. “Three-leaf tithe! Pile before Ermit!”

Berney echoed, pounding the rhythm: “Three-leaf! Three-word! Three-beat!”

Grog roared, inspired. “Grog love… trade!” He ripped his shell bag and poured it onto the plinth. “Grog love tribe!” He thumped his chest. “Grog love truth!” He bellowed at the frog, voice cracking. “Even when truth small and Ziphy mouth broken!”

Ermit’s eyes lit like forge-fire. The carved line flared:

MARKET OATH: TRADE TRIBE TRUTH.

A shockwave rippled out. Guildsmen stumbled. Nobles grabbed hats. The ICE captain skidded, losing grip on the halberd.

The frog hopped—stone and all—onto Zippy’s ruined tux, then onto Fred’s mallet, then onto Flicka’s open palm. Flicka grinned like she’d just negotiated with gravity and won. “Oath accepted.”

The Blade tutted, amused. “He dodged the exact words and still passed. Irritatingly inventive.”

ICE rallied. “Seize the contraband!”

Grog grabbed Flicka’s wrist; Flicka grabbed Zippy’s sleeve; Zippy grabbed Grog’s shell bag without meaning to. Blug dove in with an armful of cabbage-coins he’d invented three minutes ago. Fred and Berney locked arms like a gate the sea could not pass.

Flicka slammed the device. “Hold on!”

The marketplace smeared into a ribbon of color. The guild banners stretched to threads. The stained-glass Stella  flickered, and for a brutal heartbeat, her eyes looked right into Zippy and saw everything he couldn’t say.

Then—whoosh.

They were gone.

Only the square remained, littered with cabbages, new ledgers titled Trade Tribe Truth, and one very confused ICE captain holding a halberd hooked to nothing.

Inside the fading echo of the oath, the stone frog’s last line etched itself into the guildhall wall:

FLAT END WAITS. MIND YOUR STEP.

In the tumbling corridor between times, Grog patted Zippy’s back with a hand like a shovel. “Ziphy brave today. Mouth broken, heart not.”

Zippy coughed a laugh that sounded like running out of breath. “Working on it.”

Blug counted cabbage-coins with the joy of a man inventing fees on the fly. “Blug love profit,” he announced, purely to irritate the universe.

Ermit blinked from Flicka’s arms, tiny crown tilted. “Truth keeps you on the round part,” the frog rumbled. “At the flat end, people fall off.”

Grog nodded gravely, as if he’d always known. “Grog keep tribe on round part.”

The Blade, floating like a smug rumor in their wake, smiled. “Onward then. More markets. More traps. More nearly-words.”

Zippy stared into the rushing dark, where a glimmer of stained glass felt like a promise he still couldn’t pronounce.

“Soon,” he whispered to nobody. “Soon as I can.”

The vortex swallowed their echoes and hurled them toward the next screening of the orange guy and the tariff club and spear wars

Chapter 11: Colonial Complications

The salty sea breeze slapped Grog’s face as he, Flicka, and Blug blinked onto a creaking dock in a roaring 18th-century port. Sails bellied. Ropes groaned. Fish smell punched like a club.

Grog sniffed, pleased and offended at same time. “Smell like big fish funeral.”

Grog pointed at a towering ship. “Big canoe. What they trade? Many, many shells?”

He patted his shell bag, hopeful as sunrise. “Grog ready buy whole canoe with shells.”

Flicka breathed in the bustle. “Not shells, Grog. Global trade. Insurance, companies, taxes.”

She tapped her temple. “Careful where you step—the century is slippery.”

“Insurance?” Grog frowned. “Like promise give shells back if big canoe sinks?”

He nodded, approving this magic. “Good promise. Ocean greedy.”

“Sort of,” Flicka said. “You pay a little now so you don’t lose everything later.”

“Pay now, cry less later,” Grog repeated, committing new wisdom to tribe-brain.

Under the dock, something lurched in a basket of fish guts and sequins. Zippy Zephyr crawled out, tux slick with brine and shame.

He gagged, blinked fish scales from his lashes, and tried to look like a person who belonged where he smelled.

Internal monologue: Taxation without representation. Flashpoint territory. Do not trip into history.

Addendum: Don’t trip into history while wearing a tux that already looks indicted.

A polished boot clicked on the planks. The Blade leaned on a piling, wearing a British Customs inspector’s coat with theatrical authority. “Declarations, if you please.”

His smile assessed fines no one could afford.

Zippy tried to blend by hiding behind a crate labeled HIGHLY TAXED WIGS. The crate collapsed. A white powder cloud turned him into a distressed, sparkling barrister.

Somewhere, a gull cackled in legalese.

The Blade’s quizzing glass flashed. “Contraband hair. Two shillings per sneer.”

He produced an ink stamp that said: SPECTACLE.

Blug had already peeled off, sidling near merchants murmuring “East India Company” and “dividends.” His eyes glinted like coins learning to multiply.

“Blug learn new word: dividend,” he whispered to himself like a spell.

Grog’s nose tugged him toward a yawning warehouse steeped in perfume. He grabbed a handful of curled, fragrant leaves. “Smells good. Leaf water?”

He held it reverently. “Fancy soup of plants.”

“Tea,” Flicka hissed, yanking his wrist. “Heavily taxed. Don’t—”

She heard the hinge of history creak. “Grog, put the century down.”

“Oi!” boomed a foreman behind them. “What’re you lot doin’ in there?”

His eyebrows collected tariffs.

Grog panicked, clutched an armful of tea, and bolted. Flicka and Zippy sprinted after him, Zippy shedding wig-powder like a haunted pastry.

“I’m not evasive, I’m interpretive!” Zippy panted.

They shot down a narrow alley, hearts and barrels thudding.

Fish heads spun like jury deliberations.

“Grog,” Flicka gasped, “you’ve become an accidental smuggler.”

“Grog not smuggle—Grog borrow loudly,” he corrected.

“Smuggler like hide shells in cave?” Grog panted.

“Cave very tax-efficient,” he added thoughtfully.

“Exactly like that,” Zippy said, slipping on a sardine, catching himself on a wharf-post like a tragic chandelier.

He executed a pirouette sorrowful enough to qualify as a petition.

Blug reappeared, immaculate. “Correction: lucrative smuggler. These leaves worth more than shiny talk if you dodge the Crown.”

His grin declared independence from consequences.

Flicka’s glare could curdle cream. “We can’t keep bending history.”

She watched the air stutter—tiny glitches like moths.

Grog frowned. “We changed?”

He glanced at his shells, suddenly unsure if they remembered the sea.

“I’m seeing drift,” Flicka said quickly. “Tiny wrongnesses in every era. Our stones leave ripples.”

“Too many ripples make flood,” Grog said, uneasy.

From the tavern porch across the lane came laughter—sharp, conspiratorial. Two local women in aprons–Willa and Betty–were practice-hefting brooms like truncheons and trying on “Mohawk” disguises cut from grain sacks. Between them: Stella , cheeks flushed, hair tied up with ribbon and mischief.

The sight punched Zippy’s breath sideways.

Willa peered at Zippy, powdered like a parlor ghost. “He’s got enough flour for three pies.”

“Four, if he blushes again,” she added.

Betty twirled her broom. “Or one revolution.”

The broom whistled like a promise.

Stella  bit back a grin. “We’re… busy. Girl things.” Then to Zippy, a quick low voice: “We’re not sabotaging. We’re… calibrating.”

Her eyes dared him to be brave for once.

Zippy’s throat tried a word and turned it into steam. “I—”

His heart put a hand over his mouth.

A bosun’s whistle shrieked. Zippy flinched; the syllable fell overboard and drowned.

The harbor kept the secret. It always did.

The Blade flicked a speck from his cuff. “How touching. She gets her own slapstick now.”

He filed the moment under: Evidence.

Down the quay, a hush rippled through disguised colonists. Shadowy figures, faces daubed, moved toward the ships with quiet, practiced resolve.

History inhaled.

Flicka paled. “We’re on the edge of the Boston Tea Party. Don’t interfere.”

“Breathe small,” she warned.

Zippy nodded, backing away with great dignity, immediately snagging a mooring rope and performing a spectacular, involuntary somersault into a pyramid of empty tea chests. Wood ricocheted, lids clattered, gulls screamed in lawsuit.

A barrel stamped PAINFUL EVIDENCE rolled by his head.

Every conspirator froze, staring at the sequined, flour-haired man announcing their secret with percussion.

A fife squeaked, reconsidered patriotism.

The Blade slow-clapped from the piling. “Maximal exposure at minimal utility. The artist remains consistent.”

“Five stars,” he added, “for endangering the plot with panache.”

Willa and Betty reacted in perfect, violent choreography. Willa hip-checked Zippy upright. Betty yanked his coat tails, spun him, and jammed a coil of rope and a broom in his arms. “Congrat’s, barrister—yer on barrel duty.”

“Try not to indict gravity,” Willa advised.

Stella  stepped in, eyes sparkling. “Hands, Zip.” She knotted his sleeves tight, smearing wig powder into heroic battle stripes. “You don’t talk. You lift.”

She held his gaze half a heartbeat longer than safe.

Zippy managed a strangled nod, then slipped on a fish head and saluted the wrong ship.

“Close enough,” Stella  murmured, smiling in spite of history.

The colonists surged back into motion. Chests thumped, lids popped, tea hissed into black water like rain in reverse. Shouts rolled. Bells answered. Somewhere, a fife squealed a nervous anthem.

The harbor tasted like future headlines.

Grog hugged his stolen leaves to his chest, torn. “Leaf water belongs… where?”

“Mouth? Sea? Law?” he asked the wind.

Flicka exhaled. “In the harbor, apparently.”

“This time,” she added, as if bargaining with fate.

Grog whooped, sprinted to the rail, and heaved his armful into history. “No tax on leaf water!”

“Grog tax only on lies,” he added joyfully.

Cheers erupted. Willa whooped back, broom high. Betty hip-bumped a chest into the drink so hard it geysered. Stella  tried it, misjudged, and toppled over the rail with a yelp—caught mid-fall by Zippy’s rope in a clumsy, miraculous snare. He hauled, legs churning, face crimson.

His hands remembered courage faster than his mouth.

She dangled, dripping tea. “You are the most helpful disaster I know.”

“Occupational hazard,” he gasped.

Zippy’s mouth opened on instinct. The three words charged his tongue—and slammed into a marching file of redcoats turning the corner. He swallowed living lightning and wheezed, “I—love—”

A cannon somewhere coughed. The rest vanished into smoke and chaos.

The unspoken hovered, powder-scented and brave.

The Blade, now flourishing a customs writ, barked to a squad of inspectors. “Seize the sequined smuggler and all associates.”

His pen looked like a bayonet.

Blug slid past with a sack that clinked like future regret. “Made a few smart investments,” he murmured to Flicka. “Can you believe paper that says you own pieces of ships? Blug own tiny ocean now.”

He patted the sack. It purred like a dangerous cat.

Flicka went pale. “You just invented your own butterfly effect.”

“It flaps in accountancy,” she muttered.

On the wharf, a WANTED placard nailed itself to a post in a flurry of powder:

SEQUINED SMUGGLER. REWARD: ONE YEAR’S SUPPLY OF HAIR POWDER.

Someone added, in chalk: AND A COMB.

Zippy glanced, horrified. “That’s libel.” He flicked powder; the poster looked better. “Okay, fair.”

He considered signing it. Decided against autographs during revolutions.

Redcoats and inspectors converged. The air filled with orders and splinters.

History bared its teeth.

Stella , Willa, and Betty launched girl-slapstick like a drill team: broom trip, barrel roll, sack-over-helmet, knee-to-shin. A redcoat tumbled into a net. Another crashed through crates labeled “TAXED BISCUITS,” emerging with a cookie tin helm. Willa clanged a ladle like a war bell.

“Requisitioned,” Betty announced, crowning herself with audacity.

Grog, inspired, swung a coil of rope with prehistoric grace. “Grog help tribe!” He lassoed a customs officer’s ledger and accidentally three more redcoats.

“Two-for-one!” he cheered, then added a third without meaning to. “Three-for-one!”

Ermit the Frog popped from a rain barrel on the dock—stone, crown, and all, somehow here—blinking at the tea-foam. Carved letters crawled across his plinth:

THREE WORDS SAVE YOU.

Grog whispered to Flicka, reverent: “Frog-law again.”

ICE—the Inquisitorial Council of Enforcement—stormed up from the quay in black coats that drank moonlight. Their sergeant jabbed a baton at Ermit. “Contraband idol again? Seize it!”

His badge tried to outshine the sea and failed.

Ermit croaked, affronted stone. New line etched itself:

OATH FIRST. THEN LAW.

The plank beneath ICE creaked like it agreed.

“Not this frog again,” the sergeant snarled.

“He follows good markets,” Grog said proudly. “Smart frog.”

Fred and Berney—the medieval masons somehow out of time, dusty as ever—trundled a barrow down the dock like they’d been here all along. Fred planted boots. Berney hefted a mallet. “We’re on union break,” Fred informed the universe. “Oath time.”

Berney set the mallet like a chapel bell. “Three beats,” he said.

Stella , breathless, smacked Zippy’s shoulder. “Say anything true.” A beat. Softer: “Or let me.”

Her voice landed where his courage lived.

Zippy stared at her, powder-freckled, tea-wet, eyes laughing and daring. The words tried to be born. He coughed on salt and fate.

He saw a thousand tiny versions of failure choose silence for him.

“I—” he choked, then pivoted with ferocious cowardice, pointing at the harbor. “love… liberty.” He winced. “And… leaf water being free. And… not getting arrested.”

He winced harder. “And your rope knots,” he added, too late and too honest.

The frog’s letters flickered, then glowed sideways, as if amused:

LIBERTY LEAF LAWFUL. TEMPORARY PASS.

A gull nodded like a magistrate.

The dock shuddered, just a little. Chains loosened. A tar line knotted itself around two inspectors’ boots and politely sat them down.

The harbor winked.

ICE advanced anyway. “Seize the sequined—”

“Sequined citizen,” Zippy corrected on reflex.

Willa and Betty swept their brooms low. Two ICE men flipped like pancakes. Stella  spun her rope again; Zippy braced, caught, hauled, nearly tripped, didn’t, did, didn’t.

“We call that progress,” Stella  panted.

Flicka yelled over the rising din, “We’ve hit the hinge—this holds, history keeps moving. If we stay, we crack it.”

Her eyes tracked cause and effect like constellations.

The Blade lifted his writ with a smile sharp as sugar glass. “Do stay. I adore a crack.”

His voice could have sliced warm butter into lawsuits.

Grog gathered the tribe with a clap that sounded like an oar hitting water. “Time stick now.”

“Tribe jump together,” he added, heart loud as drums.

They crashed together over the device—Flicka on the controls, Grog guarding, Zippy and Stella  elbow-linked, Blug hugging his clinking bag like a newborn economy. Fred and Berney locked arms in front of Ermit as ICE lunged.

Willa and Betty planted their brooms like flags. “Union of Brooms,” Betty declared.

Flicka slammed the activator.

“Hold breath. Hold truth,” she whispered.

The world tore open in salt and powder and cheers. The harbor smeared to watercolor. Redcoats stretched like taffy. The Blade’s smile hung in the air half a heartbeat too long, then snapped away.

The smell of tea braided with gunpowder and relief.

In the tunnel of rushing nothing, Stella  squeezed Zippy’s hand once—firm, accomplice-sure. “You almost said it.”

Her thumb traced a comfort he pretended not to need.

He laughed on a breath that wasn’t steady. “Working on… better nouns.”

“Nouns are cowards,” she said. “Try the truth.”

Grog thumped their joined fists with a satisfied grunt. “Tribe strong,” he declared. “Grog like leaf water when free.”

“Grog like Stella  rope tricks too,” he added, very impressed.

Blug, counting phantom dividends, sighed happily. “Blug love comp—comp… paper that pays Blug while Blug naps.”

“Lazy gold,” Grog said, suspicious.

Ermit blinked from Flicka’s lap, carving one last line into the humming dark:

FLAT END WAITS. WATCH YOUR TONGUE.

The letters glowed like a lighthouses’ last warning.

Flicka smiled despite everything. “Noted.”

She tucked the device closer, like a compass that sometimes argued back.

They flew on, tea-scented and breathless, toward the next disaster.

Behind them, the harbor kept its secret; ahead, the edge of the world looked unreasonably interested.

Chapter 12: Industrial Innovation

They arrived inside a cough.

Clanks hammered the sky. Chimneys gnawed clouds. A thousand iron teeth chewed the day.

Grog blinked at brick giants and smoke-stacks. “By Great Shell! What manner of fire-beast live in these strange caves?”

He poked a brick with one careful finger. “Cave made of squares. Smell like angry thunder.”

Flicka tugged a scarf over her mouth. “Factories, Grog. Make many goods very fast. Careful—this age runs on rules, soot, and paperwork.”

She eyed a wall of notices. “And fines. It runs on fines.”

Zippy Zephyr face-planted into oily coal dust and sprang up as a glittering chimney sweep that lost a fight with a stove. His internal voice yelled: Efficiency. Patents. Monopolies. The Blade will handcuff me with paperwork and call it destiny.

He patted the soot off like it owed him rent.

A brass watch clicked open beside his ear.

The Blade stood immaculate in a charcoal three-piece, patent scroll under one arm, smile notarized by malice. “Welcome to the Patent Office century, Mr. Zephyr. Where an idea becomes a fence.”

He snapped the watch shut; time seemed to obey.

Zippy ignored him and clocked an engine’s intake grate. Non-violent disruption! He pinched soot-black sequins from his jacket and wound up.

The Blade’s cane appeared at ankle level—trip, pirouette, THUNK—Zippy kissed a cold brick wall and ricocheted into a stack of oil drums. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG. Every head turned to admire the rare glittering disaster.

“Excellent noise, terrible aim,” The Blade sighed. “Max distraction, zero change.”

He stamped an invisible form: FAILURE, WITH FLAIR.

Blug’s pupils turned into pound signs. “Look, Grog! They make shells faster than ocean!” He lifted a ceramic shell from a shop window row of identical clones.

Grog held it, disappointed. “Not real. No story. No sea.” He put it back like it might cry.

He pressed his own shell to his ear; it told him waves. The window shells told him nothing.

A factory owner in a top hat boomed by: “Story? Bah! Uniformity is perfection!”

Grog scratched his head. “If all same, how know which best?”

“Exactly,” the man grinned, missing the point.

Flicka’s eyes narrowed. The gas lamps along the street flickered out of rhythm; a cornice blinked, reappearing fancier, then plainer. She pulled Grog aside. “The timeline’s wobbling. Our ripples are catching up.”

A lamplighter raised his pole; for a heartbeat it was a Roman torch, then a neon wand, then a pole again.

Blug ghosted away toward the PATENT OFFICE door with the joy of a raccoon that found a bakery. “Be right back. Maybe.”

Stella , Wilma, and Betty hit the street like a cavalry of aprons. They were in rolled sleeves and borrowed factory boots, hair tied bandana-bright. Behind them thundered their hungry pet family of T-rex—four adolescents on leather leads, feathers frilled, snouts tasting soot like spice. Every step jiggled windows. People screamed and also purchased snacks to watch.

Soot swirled into star-shapes around Stella ’s ankles like it recognized her.

Wilma winked at Stella . “We walk the dogs, dear. Very normal.”

Betty fed a T-rex a whole loaf. “They’re peckish.”

The T-rex burped in iambic pentameter.

ICE—the Inquisitorial Council of Enforcement—spotted Ermit the Frog peering from a rain barrel on a handcart and formed up in black coats like a legal thunderhead. Their sergeant pointed. “Seize contraband idol!”

Ermit blinked, stone eyes damp with barrel water. Letters carved themselves across his plinth:

OATH FIRST. THEN LAW.

“Not this frog again,” the sergeant snarled.

The T-rexes perked up at the shiny badges. Wilma loosened two leads by an accident that looked exactly like intent. “Heel,” she said sweetly. The T-rexes did not know that word. They knew the word chase.

ICE ran.

The street became slapstick: black coats hurdling coal heaps, T-rex claws clicking like castanets, Wilma and Betty steering with brooms and sausages, Stella  laughing, sprinting, vaulting a crate, cheeks bright.

As Stella  vaulted, sparks rose and arranged themselves into tiny constellations that spelled almost-words.

Zippy tried to say “Don’t eat the—” and swallowed a soot moth instead.

He coughed out a perfect smoke ring that read OOPS.

Grog drifted toward a tiny workshop tucked between smokestacks. Inside, an old toymaker carved a wooden bird whose wings beat when you breathed on it.

Grog stared, reverent. “Your shells—eh—birds have soul.”

The old man’s smile was sawdust-soft. “Factories make a hundred. I make one that remembers my hands.”

Grog’s chest warmed like a kiln. “Grog trade you real shell for bird.”

They swapped, grinning like cousins.

The bird fluttered once in Grog’s palm, like it had learned his name.

Flicka skidded in. “Grog, the city’s glitching. We have to keep disruption small and honest or it tears.” She pointed; a steam omnibus blinked into a horse omnibus and back, confused about hooves.

“Truth is glue,” she added. “Lies are solvents.”

Blug burst from the Patent Office with a bouquet of legal thistles. “Good news! Blug now owns idea for ‘Universal Spinning Thread-Thing’ and ‘Self-Heating Soup Bowl.’ People give Blug money for papers.”

Flicka blanched. “From which future did you steal those?”

“Future, schmooture,” Blug said, and three of his patents flickered into blank paper labeled PARADOX HOLD.

“Uh-oh,” Blug added helpfully.

He stuffed the blank papers into his vest as if shame could be filed.

Zippy, still ringing from drums, spotted the Stock Exchange—a cathedral of numbers. Inside, hands windmilled, mouths auctioned lightning. He took one step and his shoe slid on a puddle of engine oil into a pile of tickers. Paper geysered. Two brokers wore him like a scarf.

The Blade appeared in the chaos with the timing of a punchline. “Ownership by paper, love by omission. You are a master of one.”

He adjusted Zippy like a cravat and let him fall.

Stella  popped up on the trading floor with Wilma and Betty and four panting, delighted T-rexes that had finally treed ICE on the balcony rail. “Zip!” Stella  tossed him a factory cap. “Blend.”

He put it on; it fell over his eyes; he saluted a telegraph.

The telegraph clicked back: ?!

Wilma clapped. “We’re testing a hypothesis.”

Betty pointed at the horizon. “Is the flat end flat?”

Zippy’s brain hiccuped. “You’re going to… chase ICE off the…?”

“Edge?” Stella  grinned. “Only a little. For science.”

A soot-mote halo flickered over her like a crown that refused to behave.

Ermit, rocking on his barrel on the trading floor somehow, carved fast:

THREE WORDS SAVE YOU. TEST LAST.

The T-rexes yodeled happily.

ICE, cornered on the balcony, blew a whistle shaped like a lawsuit. Reinforcements thundered up the marble stairs.

Flicka grabbed Zippy’s sleeve. “We need an oath—small, true, stabilizing—before this place melts.”

Zippy’s mouth, the eternal traitor, tried to open properly and seized. The three words were a locked door with a window that never quite opened.

“Say anything true,” Stella  whispered, close enough to taste soot and cinnamon on her breath.

As she spoke, the nearest gas lamp brightened, then held steady—like her voice steadied flame.

Zippy looked at the old toymaker bird in Grog’s palm, at the glassy factory shells in the window, at the T-rex tails wagging like metronomes for trouble. He croaked, “I love—”

A steam whistle screamed the rest to tatters. He pivoted hard. “—work with hands.” He pointed, desperate. “And people, not just paper. And… sausage diplomacy.” (Betty had bribed a T-rex mid-sentence.)

Ermit glowed. New line:

HANDS PEOPLE PEACE. LOCAL STAY.

The floor steadied. The lamps synced. The balcony stopped arguing with gravity. For one useful beat, time admitted a compromise.

“Arrest them!” ICE tried again, adored by their own echoes.

Wilma snapped her broom across the sergeant’s shins. Betty’s T-rex delicately ate a badge. Stella  swung a rope like a lasso and plucked a writ from midair. “Confiscated.”

The seized paper turned to ash in her hand and drifted up as glittering gnats that spelled behave.

The Blade applauded. “Delicious choreography.”

Flicka hauled Grog toward the exit. “We’ve done enough. Before this era turns into a stew.”

Grog grabbed the toymaker’s hands. “Keep carve. Your one beat hundred.” He pressed the real shell into the man’s palm; the man pressed the bird into Grog’s. Trade tribe truth.

The old man nodded, eyes bright as lampglass. “Mind the edge,” he whispered, like he’d heard the rumor too.

Blug, patents glitching between money and confetti, scurried after them. “Blug invests in… something not currently evaporating.”

On the street, reality hiccuped again: a factory wall showed a Roman frieze, then a neon sign, then brick. The T-rexes barked at history and it flinched.

Stella  stroked a snout; sparks settled. “Good dinosaur,” she told time. Time—briefly—listened.

ICE re-formed across the boulevard with a wagon-mounted clamp designed to seize idols. They charged Ermit’s barrel.

Fred and Berney—dusty, eternal—were suddenly there with a handcart of bricks. Fred folded his arms. “Union says oath first.” Berney hefted the mallet like a period.

“Full stop,” he said, and the street paused on command.

Ermit carved one last warning:

FLAT END WAITS. WATCH YOUR TONGUE.

Wilma grinned like a child about to sled. “Field trip.”

Betty pointed the T-rex pack at ICE. “Heel?” They did not heel. They joyed. ICE fled down Foundry Lane toward the smokestack horizon that shimmered oddly flat if you didn’t trust it.

The horizon quivered, considering whether to be edge or stage.

Stella  squeezed Zippy’s fingers once—quick, conspirator sure. “Meet you at the edge.”

Her touch sparked a brief aurora in the soot, a tiny banner only he could see.

Zippy’s breath tripped. “I—” A piston hissed; a bell tolled; the word died theatrical. He squeezed back. “Go.”

Flicka yanked the device from her satchel. “Now, tribe!”

They formed the knot—Flicka on dials, Grog with the bird in one hand and Ermit on his knee, Zippy glitter-grimy and stubbornly alive, Blug hugging a sack of maybe-money, Wilma and Betty whooping in the distance with four ecstatic dinosaurs chasing a government into cartography.

The Blade tipped his hat. “Onward then. The edge awaits.”

His shadow stretched long, tried to step first, and failed.

Flicka slammed the activator. The world shivered, folded, and slid.

As the city telescoped into a paper fan, Grog looked at the tiny wooden bird and smiled like sunrise. “Grog like this age a little. Machine loud, but heart still carve.”

He tucked the bird by his shell. “Both sing.”

In the rushing dark, Ermit’s letters glowed steady:

HOLD TO HANDS. HOLD TO PEOPLE. SPEAK WHEN READY.

Zippy let out a laugh that was almost a confession and not yet. “Working on it.”

Stella ’s laughter braided with his in the slipstream, making the dark look less dark.

They flew, soot-scented and laughing, toward the bright impossible line where maps run out and truth decides whether to be said—or swallowed.

Chapter 13: Future Finance

They arrived inside light that had forgotten it was light. The brightness shivered, hacked like bad bookkeeping, and coughed up twenty shells it didn’t even have—tariffs, interest, penalties, all scrambled into glittering clams that bounced across the street before vanishing back into nothing.

Skyscrapers braided the sky with neon veins. Holograms winked open and shut like eyelids. Money didn’t move; it flowed—thin silver rivers of data streaming between towers, pooling in invisible basins, sluicing through the hands of people who never broke stride.

Zippy hit the pavement in what remained of his tux: sequined ribbons stitched together by soot, hope, and denial. He didn’t look up. He searched the crowd—every mirrored window, every ghostly overlay—for her.

A passing holo-ad skimmed his cheek and briefly mirrored Stella ’s smile before dissolving into APR math. His breath hitched anyway.

“By the Great Mammoth’s tusks,” Grog breathed, chin lifting to the holographic billboards. “What manner of magic is this?”

He cupped a hand to a translucent screen like it could warm him. “Fire with no wood. Talk with no mouth.”

“Future finance,” Flicka said, already reading with her eyes. “Gesture wallets. Quantum ledgers. Nanocoin yield farms. Careful—time here runs on precision.”

She watched the streetlines: they quivered like tight harp strings, ready to snap if plucked wrong.

Zippy muttered to himself, too loud. “Is Stella  a Quantum Derivative? A NanoCoin? A push notification? Give me a prompt, a breadcrumb, a—”

He started kicking at the city—under benches, behind kiosks, lifting decorative grates like he could pry love out of the tile. A traffic drone chirped. A billboard unfurled an ad directly over his head: Find Meaning in Five Clicks. He swatted it away like a rude moth.

The ad broke into tiny icons that arranged themselves (for just a breath) into E Z — then reflowed into a bank logo.

“You realize,” purred a voice at his shoulder, “you’re the narrative equivalent of a terrier in a bank vault.”

The Blade wore a suit cut from ticker tape and arrogance, lapels streaming live market data. His smile was a scalpel. “She’s not a misplaced plot point, Mr. Zephyr. She’s structural now.”

“Shut up,” Zippy snapped, hauling at a glowing access panel. “She might be written into the Mainframe.”

“Of course,” The Blade said sweetly. “Why not check under the cosmological rug while you’re at it?”

His cufflinks rolled the futures market three seconds forward and back, just to watch Zippy wobble.

Flicka herded Grog and Blug to a public terminal. “EconomicaVR 3000,” trilled a hologram. “Today’s lesson: DeFi, quantum escrow, chain-agnostic liquidity.”

“Where are the shells?” Grog asked, truly asking.

“Invisible,” Flicka said softly. “Numbers that pretend to be things.”

Grog frowned at air. “Air lie good in this place.”

Blug’s eyes found the promise they’ve always chased. A billboard winked: Hack the Planet—The Ultimate VR Trading Floor. By the time Flicka finished reading the fine print, Blug had already slid into a pod like sin into a loophole.

Alarms pealed three notes later. “Warning,” droned the plaza AI. “Unauthorized access detected. Global network integrity compromised.”

Street edges fuzzed. Building seams flickered. A child’s scooter zipped past and became, for a blink, a bronze chariot.

A vendor’s shout arrived before his mouth moved, then replayed in sync; time forgot its cue cards.

Flicka’s jaw set. “Paradox droop. Our ripples have come home.” She pointed to the heart of the district: a cathedral of black glass pulsing with cold light. “The Quantum Mainframe. If I can reach it, maybe I can roll back our worst damage.”

Zippy kept prying panels, kept scanning faces, kept misbelieving he could search his way to the only sentence his mouth refused to shape. The city’s windows threw his reflection back at him in shards: a tired joke in formalwear.

“Zip,” Grog said, stepping into the reflection until they were two broken men in one pane. “Grog say… life without Stella  look like empty cave after fire go out.”

Zippy blinked. The sentence had no data. It was heavier.

Grog pressed a hand against Zippy’s shoulder—steady as a tree root. “Grog not Grog without Misses Grog. Fire need two logs. Otherwise… smoke and cough.”

Zippy laughed once, small, and it hurt. “I’m trying.”

Grog nodded, the simplest blessing. “Then try close. Not far.”

As his hand lifted, the hologram nearest them softened its glare—as if proximity itself were magic.

The plaza erupted. Blug burst from the pod wearing a grin minted on lies. “I did it! I’m richest caveman in history!” He waved a holographic certificate that insisted it existed.

“Blug,” Flicka said, not looking up from the Mainframe console she’d jacked into, “you just replaced the ocean with a spreadsheet.”

“I control this world now,” Blug declared, and six streetlights flickered into candelabras, then into star-shaped lanterns, then back.

“Do you?” Zippy asked. “Because you look a lot like a man riding a bubble with a pin in his pocket.”

The Blade checked a cufflink that was also a market index. “Speaking of pins.”

Flicka’s fingers became a blur. “Reset sequence staged. But we have to go inside the trading core to nudge it clean. Otherwise we crack the century.”

The world peeled back like film. They fell through into a room with no corners—a roaring abstract canyon. Numbers surged like salmon. Contracts unfolded like flowers and withered into spreadsheets. Value was a reef of rules.

Light here smelled faintly of ozone and ink. Somewhere, a choir of calculators hummed.

Blug leapt for it. The reef moved. He slipped, grabbed a flashing derivative, skied ten meters, and whooped in terrible delight.

“Blug,” Grog said, voice low enough to be heard over everything. “Shell carry story of sea. This carry story of want.” He opened his empty palm. “Do we want to be men of want?”

Blug’s grin stuttered.

Flicka yanked a lever that wasn’t a lever. The system coughed. Two timelines stopped trying to wear the same shoe. “One push,” she said, teeth clenched. “I need a local truth keyed by an oath.”

Ermit the Frog materialized on a glass plinth, crown slightly askew, letters etching themselves in clean white:

THREE WORDS. OR A TRUE NEARNESS.

A breeze touched Zippy’s cheek though there was no air here. Pixels shed their edges and, for a second, became sun on a floral dress. Stella ’s outline ghosted across a nearby surface—light pooling in her shape and then draining away like a smile you almost catch.

Zippy’s chest went tight as a knot. He looked at Flicka, at Grog, at the ripple-city, at the place in the air where Stella  never quite condensed. He pulled air in like wire.

“I lo—”

A market bell gonged the syllable into static. The Blade smiled without mercy. “Timing remains a loyal friend.”

Zippy’s throat burned. He pivoted hard, like always.

“I stay,” he rasped, pointing at Grog and Flicka. “With my tribe. With the hands that pull me toward. I… choose near.”

Ermit glowed. New line:

NEARNESS ACCEPTED. REBALANCE ALLOWED.

The core shivered. The timelines loosened their chokehold on each other. Buildings above blinked back into one century per skyline. The plaza’s air tasted a little less like electricity and a little more like breath.

Blug sagged, his holographic certificate bumping against his chest like a child’s trophy. He stared at Grog’s open hand and found himself tired of standing alone.

“What if I like being rich?” he said, but his voice broke on like.

Grog stepped forward. “Then be rich in tribe. Trade story for story. Shell for shell.” He held out the hand that had always been there. “Come home.”

Blug stared at it, fought it, took it.

Above them, an ad glitched into two hands clasping; it steadied when their fingers did.

“Now,” Flicka said, and threw the switch that wasn’t a switch but felt exactly like one.

Light detonated. The ledger of the age blinked to second draft. Foam drained from the edge of history. Above, the alarms went from murder to elevator.

Zippy, still kneeling by the access panel he’d failed to lift at the start of the chapter, felt the floor seize his tux like a set hook. A bright vertical tug. Not gravity. Authorship.

“No—wait!” He scrabbled, palms sliding on clean glass. “Stella ! I didn’t find the—”

The Blade bent into his field of vision, nearer than breath, and spoke like a verdict. “You didn’t find her because she isn’t lost. She’s placed. You failed the simplicity challenge, Mr. Zephyr. Time for a genre you cannot afford to lose.”

The tug became a rip. Zippy tore free of the future like a label off a bottle. The last sound he caught from the world below was Grog’s voice—warm, certain, telling the plaza a story about shells, greed, and the way a tribe holds when the tide tries to take it.

For an instant, the neon spelled EZ in the reflection of his shoe and then forgot.

Then—black silk.

He landed on something soft and cold: wealth disguised as comfort. His tux was suddenly perfect, tailored to decisions he hadn’t made. Streetlamps wore diamonds. Power purred in the curb like an idling cat.

A sound like a door opening in someone else’s life: a sleek black car slid to a stop, windows polished to privacy. The air smelled of salt, cologne, and tension pulled tight as piano wire.

Zippy looked down. The suit looked back. He knew the cut. Knew the trap.

A woman’s voice, low and precise, came from a breath away—addressed to the man beside Zippy, not to Zippy at all. “Careful,” she said. “You’re crushing my arm.”

Zippy’s heart fell through the floor and kept falling.

He knew that line.

He was in the story where perfection casts the lead and Zippy Zephyr is not it.

He swallowed a truth that wouldn’t be said and felt, for the first time, exactly how empty a city can be without a sundress laugh to bend its light.

“Grog not Grog without Misses Grog,” echoed a voice from a century away.

Zippy straightened his cuffs that weren’t his and did not say three words to the night.

The car’s door sighed, and the trap began.

The vortex spat them like chewed gum into the rushing dark. Grog still clutched his shell bag, Blug clutched his maybe-money, Flicka yanked the dials, Ermit blinked, and Zippy flailed like a half-folded umbrella.

Stella ’s sundress shimmered faint in the churn, her hand brushing Zippy’s—almost, not-quite. “Zip,” she breathed, but the roar ate the rest.

Then—another scream of light.

A billboard-sized grin split the dark. The Blade leaned on nothing, clapping lazily. “Onward, my sweet calamities. You’ve graduated from frog oaths to faster stakes. Shall we… race?”

The vortex belched, hiccupped, and hurled them forward.

They crash-landed sideways into a locker room of alarms, glitter, and whale noises. Neon sheep bounced off their ears. A galactic mattress catapulted a man named Yogi into the ceiling.

“By Mammoth’s tusk,” Grog blinked, now half-glued to a vending machine, “cave have flying bed.”

Flicka peeled soot off her face. “Not cave, Grog. A race.”

Zippy staggered upright just as Yogi fell on him. “I didn’t sign up for NASCAR fanfiction,” he wheezed, sequins and grease mingling.

Stella  popped out of a holo-screen, blurred like a sponsor ad, rolling her eyes. “Really, Zip? You break eras, frogs, and now you’re gatecrashing a livestream?”

Cookie Girl—Ziphy’s baby sister in pigtails and crumbs—wandered in with a biscuit the size of a planet. “Don’t worry,” she announced solemnly, “I brought snacks for the apocalypse.”

The Blade flicked into existence at the pit wall, wearing a pit-crew headset and malice. “Welcome to the Galactic Grand Prix. Time itself is your track. Do try not to win too quickly—I adore prolonging your failures.”

And just like that, they were folded into Team Starborn’s disaster orbit, the warp drive coughing light like a sick dragon. Yogi screamed, Peachy streamed, Starlit threatened physics, and the whole timeline trembled as the countdown boomed:

“10… 9…”

Chapter 14: The Starting Line

The morning of the 3045 Galactic Grand Prix dawned with the usual chaos that followed Team Starborn like a cosmic curse. Yogi, their disaster-prone pilot, was doing what he did best – sleeping through his seventh alarm while his quantum mattress tried desperately to eject him.

“COUNTDOWN ORBIT INITIATED,” the mattress intoned in a voice too cheerful for the impending disaster. “Three… two… one…”

With a muffled whoomp, the mattress launched Yogi into the air like a badly aimed comet. He sped toward the ceiling, arms and legs flailing, trying to swim through the air as if sheer determination might change gravity’s mind.

“IMPACT IN… three… two… one…”

Thunk. Yogi smacked the ceiling panels, rattling the neon lights above, before bouncing gracelessly back toward the floor. His blanket clung to the ceiling for a full five seconds before peeling away in slow motion, floating back down to drape across his face like a defeated flag. On the way down, his mug of synth-coffee leapt off the nightstand and splattered against the wall, leaving a brown Rorschach blot vaguely shaped like a rocket crash.

As Yogi groaned, a maintenance bot rolled past, beeped once, and held up a little scorecard hologram that read: 3.5/10.

“CRITICAL ALERT: PILOT CONSCIOUSNESS REQUIRED IN T-MINUS 47 MINUTES TO RACE START,” AI Blip’s voice echoed through the team’s pit quarters. “ALSO, DID YOU KNOW THAT IN 1903, THE WRIGHT BROTHERS’ FIRST FLIGHT LASTED EXACTLY AS LONG AS YOGI’S CURRENT REM CYCLE?”

Peachy, already streaming live to her 50 million followers across three galaxies, pointed her holo-cam at Yogi’s door.

“Welcome back, Stellar Squad! Your girl Peachy here, bringing you the pre-race drama. Will our pilot actually make it to the starting line? Smash that like button and quantum-subscribe to find out!”

The holochat feed exploded instantly. A looped gif of Yogi bouncing off the ceiling played on repeat while viewers spammed 🚀💥 emojis. One generous fan donated with the caption: “buy this man a helmet that fits.”

Meanwhile, Peachy’s camera filter glitched and auto-generated a halo of cartoon planets over her head, giving her the appearance of a saint of chaos. She didn’t bother to turn it off—if anything, it improved the brand. In the background, a pit mouse dragged away Yogi’s missing boot like it had just won the lottery.

The holochat scrolled faster, a storm of emojis, bets, and gifs of Yogi’s past crashes. Peachy knew exactly how to milk their dysfunction for views—her cheerful tone only slightly masking the team’s desperation.

The door finally burst open, revealing Yogi in his mismatched racing suit, one boot on and his helmet backwards.

“I’m up! I’m up! What’s the damage?”

“Well,” Starlit called from beneath their experimental racing pod, her voice muffled by machinery, “besides the fact that our warp drive modifications are completely unauthorized and probably illegal in sixteen star systems, I just found a critical flaw in the temporal stabilization matrix.”

“Is that bad?” Yogi asked, hopping on one foot while trying to put on his other boot.

His helmet visor fogged up completely, so instead of finding the boot, he kept stomping on a wrench. The pod rattled like an angry toaster. Starlit, half buried in wires, muttered, “This stabilizer is held together with duct tape and a prayer,” just as the duct tape peeled off and slapped her forehead with comic timing.

Above them, a stray announcer drone buzzed past, mistakenly announcing: “Welcome, Team StarBored!” before quickly correcting itself.

“Only if you enjoy existing in a single timeline,” Starlit replied dryly, sliding out from under the pod, her face smeared with iridescent engine grease. “The quantum fluctuation could theoretically—”

“Theoretically is my favorite kind of possible disaster!” Yogi interrupted, finally getting his helmet on straight. “Peachy, how’re we doing on social?”

Peachy, still streaming, grinned. “Our hashtag StarBornToRace is trending across the temporal net. Oh, and I may have accidentally shown our modified warp drive to the entire universe about five minutes ago.”

“YOU WHAT?” The entire team shouted in unison.

AI Blip’s holographic form flickered. “CALCULATING PROBABILITY OF RACE DISQUALIFICATION… ERROR… SIMULTANEOUSLY COMPUTING JOKE ABOUT RACING AND TEMPORAL PHYSICS… ERROR… WHY DID THE TACHYON CROSS THE MÖBIUS STRIP? TO GET TO THE SAME SIDE!”

Peachy’s feed immediately filled with shady sponsor offers: “Need illegal parts? DM us!” Meanwhile, a prankster viewer superimposed a clown nose onto Yogi’s face, and it tracked him no matter where he moved. To make matters worse, Blip’s hologram glitched and briefly replaced its head with that of a chicken before snapping back.

“Not now, Blip!” Starlit frantically typed on her holo-console. “We’ve got three minutes until inspection, and the stabilizer is still—”

The inspection alarm blared. Peachy quickly switched to her best angle.

“Don’t forget to use promo code ‘TIMEBEND’ for 20% off your next quantum energy drink!”

The inspector arrived, gave their pod a quick scan, and sighed before discreetly asking Peachy for a selfie. Mid-scan, a panel clattered to the ground, exposing a giant blinking red button labeled DO NOT PRESS.” Yogi instinctively reached for it and had his hand slapped away by Starlit.

Meanwhile, the warp drive hummed so loudly that a passing crew mistook it for a karaoke machine starting up.

In what could only be described as a miracle (or perhaps a disaster waiting to happen), they somehow passed inspection. The inspector, clearly more interested in Peachy’s stream than their obviously modified engine, barely glanced at the glowing, pulsing, definitely-not-regulation warp drive.

At that exact moment, the vortex from another story spat out five unexpected passengers.

Grog slammed into the pit wall, shell bag scattering across the grid. “By Mammoth’s tusk—sky canoe race!”

Blug landed in a popcorn cart, immediately selling kernels as “time crystals” to confused fans. Flicka rolled to her feet, already scanning the warp drive like it was her natural habitat.

Zippy crashed headfirst into Yogi’s half-fastened boot, sequins flying like confetti. Stella  flickered out of Peachy’s holo-cam filter, arms crossed, glare devastating. “Zip, are you photobombing galactic livestreams now?”

Cookie Girl, munching her eternal biscuit, toddled after them with cosmic calm. “Don’t worry,” she told the holochat, crumb-covered. “He always crashes. It’s fine.”

The Blade appeared leaning on the inspector’s clipboard, smirking. “Perfect stage. Perfect cast. Shall we ruin a Grand Prix together?”

Peachy squealed. “Oh my god, crossover episode!” Her chat went nuclear, spamming 🐸🍪 emojis.

As they lined up at the starting grid – dead last due to their delayed start and unexpected extra passengers – Yogi tried to sound confident.

“Okay team, remember the plan. We stay steady, we stay safe, and we absolutely do not engage the experimental warp—”

“RACE START IN 10… 9…” The announcement boomed across the track.

Yogi was so nervous he fumbled with the controls and accidentally triggered his “calming meditation playlist.” Whale noises blared over the pod’s intercom, echoing across the starting grid. Peachy, ever opportunistic, applied a glitter filter to the livestream feed. Now their “serious pre-race strategy” looked like a galactic disco party.

A rival racer leaned over, revved his engine menacingly—then sneezed so hard his visor fogged up completely.

“I should mention,” Starlit said quickly, “that the stabilizer might react badly to—”

“8… 7… 6…”

Peachy positioned her cameras for the perfect angle. “This is going to be epic for my followers!”

“5… 4… 3…”

AI Blip suddenly sparked. “INTERESTING FACT: THE FIRST RECORDED RACING ACCIDENT IN HUMAN HISTORY WAS… TEMPORAL ANOMALY DETECTED!”

“2… 1…”

Yogi’s hand slipped on the controls, accidentally hitting the warp drive activation sequence. The last thing Team Starborn (and their very confused new passengers) heard before reality turned inside out was Peachy’s excited voice:

“Don’t forget to like and subscribe, because we’re about to make history! Literally!”

The experimental warp drive engaged with a sound that could only be described as the universe hiccupping. Their racing pod spun wildly, creating a chain reaction that ripped through the starting grid. One by one, each competing team was caught in the temporal wake, their vehicles disappearing in flashes of chronometric energy.

One unlucky racer screamed, “I JUST PAID OFF MY POD!” before being swallowed whole by the vortex. Peachy’s chat, assuming it was staged, exploded with comments like: “Best special effects ever!” and “Hollywood could never.” Meanwhile, Blip tried to calm everyone by projecting a soothing screensaver of bouncing neon sheep counting themselves.

As their pod tumbled through the newly created time vortex, AI Blip managed one last observation:

“CONGRATULATIONS! WE’VE JUST INVENTED A NEW CATEGORY OF RACING DISASTER! WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR A JOKE ABOUT TIME TRAVEL? IT’S ABOUT TO BECOME HISTORICALLY RELEVANT!”

The last thing they saw before everything went white was the entire racing grid—and one stray frog idol—being sucked into their temporal wake, transforming Earth’s timeline into the most dangerous racetrack in history.

Yogi, strapping himself in tighter, could only mutter what would become Team Starborn’s unofficial motto:

“Well, at least we can’t finish last if we’ve broken time itself.”

Chapter 15: Prehistoric Pit Stop

The temporal vortex spat Team Starborn’s vehicle out like a watermelon seed, sending them spiraling through a violet-tinged sky before crash-landing in what appeared to be a vast primordial swamp. Steam hissed from their overheated engine as it slowly sank into the murky water.

A giant dragonfly immediately perched on Yogi’s helmet and refused to leave, buzzing in his ear like an angry hairdryer. The pod itself landed briefly on a massive lily pad, which bowed dramatically under the weight before flipping them off into the muck like a trampoline. As if to add insult, a prehistoric frog croaked at them from the bank and belched out one of Peachy’s lost hologram stickers, which stuck to Yogi’s visor.

“Everyone alive?” Yogi called out, his head still spinning from the impact. “And more importantly, where’s my lucky racing goggles?”

“Breaking news!” Peachy’s voice chirped as she immediately activated her holo-cam. “We’ve just made history by becoming the first racing team to literally crash into history! Current location: unknown, but definitely pre-air conditioning.” She panned around, capturing the alien landscape of towering ferns and strange insects buzzing through the humid air.

Yogi searched under his seat cushion and triumphantly pulled something out—only to discover it was a rubber chicken that had somehow survived the temporal jump. Peachy’s live feed auto-translated “primordial swamp” as “eco-spa retreat,” which caused three of her viewers to instantly book fake vacation packages. Meanwhile, a horse-sized insect landed on her holo-cam lens, giving the stream an extreme close-up of its hairy mandibles before scuttling off.

AI Blip’s interface flickered to life, but instead of its usual blue glow, it was now an alarming shade of green. “Processing temporal coordinates… We appear to be approximately 165 million years in the past. Also, I’m experiencing an unexpected emotional response to the flying reptiles overhead. They’re… beautiful.”

“Those aren’t birds, are they?” Starlit emerged from beneath the hood, covered in some sort of prehistoric goo. “They’re pterodactyls. We’re in the actual Jurassic period!”

As if on cue, a pterodactyl swooped low and snatched Yogi’s remaining boot, only to immediately drop it with an offended squawk after catching a whiff of it. Blip’s voice glitched mid-sentence, sighing dreamily: “Their wingspan… magnificent… I think I’m in love.” Meanwhile, the goo dripping off Starlit plopped onto the pod’s horn controls, which blared out the “Jaws” theme in tinny synth.

A distant roar made them all freeze.

“Quick question,” Yogi said, his voice unusually calm. “That wouldn’t happen to be the famous thunder lizard we all learned about in school, would it?”

“If by ‘thunder lizard’ you mean a Tyrannosaurus Rex,” AI Blip chimed in, “then yes. And it’s approximately 300 meters away and closing rapidly.”

Peachy’s eyes lit up. “This is going to get so many views! JurassicRacing ActuallyGoingToGetEaten”

Yogi muttered under his breath, “Please let it be a vegetarian one,” as the ground trembled beneath massive footfalls. At the same moment, a smaller dinosaur scampered past happily gnawing on his missing goggles like a chew toy. Peachy’s stream auto-tagged the incoming T-Rex as Friendly New Follower.”

While Peachy documented their impending doom, Yogi frantically tried to restart their vehicle. The engine sputtered pathetically, coughing up more prehistoric slime. In his panic, he yanked off one of the hover-panels, which rolled away in a perfect circle.

“Wait!” Starlit exclaimed, pointing at the spinning panel. “Yogi, you just invented the wheel!”

“Great timing!” Peachy shouted, backing away from the treeline where massive footsteps were getting closer. “But unless that wheel can outrun a T-Rex, we might want to focus on not becoming fossil fuel!”

The hover-panel rolled straight into a baby dino nest, and the hatchlings immediately began riding it like a merry-go-round. Yogi puffed his chest out proudly. “You’re welcome, future civilizations,” he declared—just before slipping on swamp muck and landing flat on his back. Blip beeped dryly: “Historical contribution detected. Estimated royalties: zero, because you’re about to die.”

From the swamp ooze nearby, a sequined arm shot up like a drowning disco-ball. Zippy Zephyr hauled himself onto a log, slime dripping, tux in tatters.

“Great,” he groaned. “Not only am I trapped in prehistory, I’m accessorizing in swamp chic.”

He fumbled in his pocket and triumphantly pulled out a shimmering conch shell. Stumbling toward a cluster of swamp-traders (giant trilobites wearing leaf hats, amphibians hawking mud pies), he raised the shell high.

“Look! Currency! This is money! Do you people accept shells? It’s retro, it’s rare, it’s—”

To his amazement, the swamp-market erupted. The trilobites clacked their claws in applause, the amphibians croaked in harmony, and a proto-mammal squeaked, “It’s as old as the orange man who created the Poo Age, when every deal stank and nothing washed off!”

“Googoo over me,” Zippy muttered as creatures swarmed. He began flinging more shells like confetti. Tadpoles danced. A frog knighted him with a stick. A mammal offered him a pebble carved like a butt in exchange.

Stella ’s flickering image appeared in the reeds, arms crossed. “Really, Zip? Dinosaurs, frogs, and you’re still trying to buy affection with clams?”

Flicka slapped her forehead. “Ziphy, you just restarted shell-inflation three epochs early.”

The Blade slid into view, standing effortlessly on the swamp water, wearing a waistcoat woven from mosquito wings. He smiled like a knife. “Commodifying slime. Delicious. You’re bankrupting history with glitter.”

Zippy beamed. “Finally! A market that loves me.”

Then the roar came.

The swamp market immediately panicked, dove into the muck, and devalued Zippy’s currency to zero. He looked around in betrayal. “What?! I was trending!”

The T-Rex burst through the vegetation, its massive head swinging toward their vehicle. Yogi, in what would later be described as either brilliant strategy or blind panic, threw his lucky goggles at the creature’s face. The reflective lenses caught the sunlight, temporarily stunning the prehistoric predator.

The T-Rex stopped just long enough to sneeze violently, launching the goggles like a missile straight into a nearby volcano vent. Peachy whispered excitedly into her cam: “First T-Rex jump scare in history—exclusive content, guys.” The swamp frogs began croaking in eerie rhythm, providing a disturbingly accurate horror soundtrack.

“The engine’s temporal core is overheating!” Starlit shouted, hands flying over the controls. “We need to jump again before we permanently alter the timeline!”

“Too late for that,” Peachy commented, still streaming. “My followers are already calling this the best unboxing video ever. Look, that baby dinosaur is playing with our spare tire!”

The T-Rex shook its head clear and focused on their vehicle with renewed hunger. Just as it lunged forward, AI Blip’s systems surged with unexpected energy.

“Pterodactyl appreciation has unlocked new power reserves!” the AI announced triumphantly. “Initiating emergency temporal jump in 3… 2…”

“Wait!” Yogi grabbed his lucky goggles from where they’d fallen. “I just need to—”

The temporal drive engaged, creating another swirling vortex. As they were pulled into the time stream, the last thing they saw was the T-Rex attempting to eat their invented wheel while a group of small mammals watched with intense interest.

On a cliff in the distance, the shadow of a confused proto-human scratched its head, then vanished in the temporal rip. The pterodactyl—whom Blip had already named Steve—swooped past in a wing salute before diving after a giant fish. Down below, one overly curious mammal stole Peachy’s selfie stick and began poking another mammal with it like it was a weapon.

“Did we just teach early mammals about the wheel?” Starlit asked, checking their temporal coordinates as they spun through the vortex.

“According to my calculations,” AI Blip responded, “we’ve created at least seventeen paradoxes in the last five minutes. Also, I’ve named that pterodactyl Steve.”

Peachy finished her livestream with a flourish. “And that’s how Team Starborn survived the Jurassic period! Don’t forget to like and subscribe, and use code DINOSAUR for 10% off your next temporal violation fine!”

Yogi, clutching his recovered goggles, squinted at the swirling vortex ahead as it shifted into a distinctly sandy hue. “Um, does anyone else see pyramids?”

“Oh no,” Starlit groaned, checking their instruments. “The temporal drive is locked onto major historical landmarks. We’re about to—”

The vortex opened, revealing the golden sands of ancient Egypt and a very large, very solid pyramid directly in their path.

“Not again!” Yogi screamed, as their vehicle plunged toward the ancient wonder, leaving behind a Jurassic period forever changed by one disaster-prone racing team, an invented wheel, and a T-Rex with a newfound appreciation for circular objects.

As they disappeared into the time stream, a small mammal picked up the remains of their hover-panel and began rolling it thoughtfully, while somewhere above, a pterodactyl named Steve watched the strange visitors vanish into thin air.

Chapter 16: Pyramid Scheme

The temporal vortex spat out Team Starborn’s vehicle directly through the shimmering crystal blocks of a half-constructed lunar pyramid, sending the Moon Influencer High Flyers scattering like startled zero-gravity pigeons. Their ship carved a perfect diagonal tunnel through the glowing structure before blasting out of the base, spraying stardust and shards of moonstone into the thin atmosphere.

One worker twirled mid-air, shook his fist, and shouted something untranslated, which Blip instantly subtitled as: This is not in my sponsorship deal! A lunar camel-drone blinked blankly at the smoking exit hole, then powered down with a long sigh as if resigning itself to “Monday again.” Nearby, a sky-scribe fainted so dramatically he drifted straight into his own anti-grav ink jar, leaving a floating splat-symbol that would puzzle future space-archaeologists.

“Well, that’s one way to leave our mark on history,” Yogi said, brushing glittering moon-dust off his mismatched racing suit. “Though I don’t think this is what they meant by ‘pyramid interior design.’”

Peachy was already streaming, her holo-cam drones zooming through the chaos. “OMG, followers! We just created the first-ever crystal pyramid secret passage! TimeTravel MoonInfluencer OopsWeDidItAgain.”

Her chat exploded with comments like “DIY Moon Pyramid Hacks” and “Collab with Queen Selene when??” One High Flyer architect floated closer, stroked the tunnel wall, and muttered something Blip translated as: “Ah yes… sleek open-concept layout.” Meanwhile, a glitter-goat with a jet harness drifted into frame and calmly devoured one of Peachy’s holographic hashtag banners.

“According to my historical database,” Blip reported, “that pyramid wasn’t scheduled to have any internal chambers for another three moon-cycles. Congratulations on creating yet another temporal paradox. We’re really collecting them like holo-trading cards at this point.”

From the rubble, Zippy Zephyr tumbled head-first, sequins shredded but still defiant. He staggered upright and immediately tried to bribe a High Flyer guard with three prehistoric shells, still dripping swamp muck.

“Payment!” Zippy declared, waving the conch. “Do you influencers accept premium clams?”

The guard stared, then screamed into his wrist-com. Peachy’s feed instantly auto-captioned it as: OMG, he’s offering NFT prototypes!

The crowd surged with delight. High Flyers snapped selfies with the shells, calling them “retro authentic.” One architect wept openly: “Ancient as the orange man who created the Poo Age, when everything smelt of sinky deals!”

“Finally!” Zippy crowed. “A market that gets me!” He threw another shell into the air, and three influencers immediately bid their sponsorship contracts for it.

Stella  flickered briefly across a half-etched crystal wall, her sundress glow refracted in moonstone prisms. “Really, Zip? Frogs, dinosaurs, now you’re selling clam-NFTs to space influencers?”

Zippy tried to look dignified, slipped on moon dust, and faceplanted into a ceremonial bread basket.

The Blade appeared atop the unfinished capstone, tuxedo shimmering with live trending hashtags. “Oh, exquisite,” he purred. “He’s bankrupting a lunar dynasty with mollusks. Do go on.”

Cookie Girl popped out of nowhere, floating in pigtails and crumbs, munching a cookie bigger than her head. She pointed at Zippy’s shells and solemnly announced, “I rate them… goo-goo.” The crowd gasped as if she’d delivered a sacred prophecy.

Starlit crawled out from beneath the pod, streaked with cosmic grease and crystal dust. “The warp drive’s crystalline matrix is fried. We need something with similar resonance to stabilize it.” Her eyes narrowed at the glowing prism waiting to crown the pyramid. “Something exactly like that.”

“No,” Blip said flatly. “Taking the capstone would destabilize their entire influencer economy.”

“Who said anything about taking?” Peachy grinned, already drifting toward a cluster of bewildered architects. “Watch and learn how a professional handles lunar PR.”

Starlit sneezed into the dust, knocking over a sacred starlight vase that promptly reassembled itself backwards. Blip muttered: “Congratulations, you just invented intergalactic flat-pack furniture.” Meanwhile, a foreman mistook their pod for a giant cosmic bread oven and began shoving dough packs toward the exhaust ports. Yogi, staring longingly at the prism, murmured like a caveman: “Shiny rock fix ship. Me want.”

Within minutes, Peachy had convinced the High Flyers that their ship was a celestial chariot, and that blessing it with the capstone would bring their entire moon prosperity. Her stream numbers spiked so fast that PyramidPower trended across multiple galaxies simultaneously.

Meanwhile, Yogi had drawn an unintended fanbase. A parade of lunar priests hovered on anti-grav sandals, bowing low before the reflective glare of his racing suit.

“Oh radiant Sun-Raider!” the High Priest intoned. “You must join us for the Feast of Starlight!”

“Actually, I’m not—” Yogi began, but Peachy elbowed him hard.

“The High Flyers probably have resources we need,” she whispered. “Just roll with it.”

Yogi stumbled forward and tripped over his mismatched boots, which the priests immediately declared as “solar boat sandals.” They cheered louder, clapping their glowing hands. Blip tried to add gravitas by projecting a golden halo above Yogi’s head, but forgot to disable the ad setting, so it pulsed with: SALE 20% OFF COSMIC WATER. A server floated past offering figs; Yogi attempted to juggle them to look divine, but promptly flung all three into a ceremonial gravity well, where they orbited like moons around a fruit bowl.

Not to be outdone, Zippy staggered onto the feast platform with his last remaining shell. “Fear not, for I—Zippy Zephyr—bring you economy!”

He dropped the shell dramatically. It bounced once, ricocheted into a gravy fountain, and splattered three dignitaries in glowing sauce. The crowd gasped, then immediately began chanting: “Shell Sauce! Shell Sauce!” as if it were the latest cosmic brand.

The Blade, sipping wine he hadn’t poured, whispered with mock devotion: “And thus begins the cult of Shellconomics.”

Stella  flickered again, perched in the glow of a moon-crystal, sighing like static. “Zip… you’re unbelievable.”

Cookie Girl, balanced on a banquet table, dunked her giant cookie in the glowing sauce. “Mmm. Goo-goo.” The crowd erupted, convinced this was divine validation.

The feast was grand, with cosmic dancers, zero-G jugglers, and food portions large enough to fuel three dynasties of influencers. Blip, projected over the table, decided to educate the local scribes in “modern” glyphs.

“This mark means LOL,” he explained, sketching a glowing symbol in the dust. “And this one means YOLO, though statistically speaking, that might not be accurate given our situation.”

One scribe spent hours chiseling “” into crystal before bursting into actual tears. Another stumbled onto “,” which was immediately adopted as the official symbol of wine approval. A guard carved “BRB” on a stela and walked off to the restroom, believing he had summoned a bathroom god.

Starlit worked frantically on the pod, slotting the prism capstone into the warp drive’s core, trying to ignore the gathering crowd. Meanwhile, the Moon Princess had locked onto Yogi, declaring every clumsy movement proof of his cosmic divinity.

“Your chaos is surely a gift from the stars!” she declared, lowering a glowing collar toward his neck.

“That’s not a collar,” Blip warned, “that’s a matrimonial tether! Yogi, don’t let her—”

Too late. The moment the collar clicked, starlight drums began booming and the High Priest started chanting marriage rites.

“Oh no, not again,” Yogi groaned. “Last time I got engaged by accident, it was to a Victorian duchess who thought my racing goggles were a hat trend!”

Peachy’s drones captured everything. “Breaking news, followers! Your favorite disaster pilot is about to marry into lunar royalty! MoonWedding RoyalRacing.”

A scruffy moon-cat leapt into Yogi’s lap, purring like a rocket engine, as if cosigning the union. Blip attempted to cover the scene with tasteful “festive mode,” but instead showered the hall in sticky holographic confetti that glued itself to the guests. The princess leaned in and whispered breathlessly, “Could you make more of those big crash-booms? They’re so romantic.”

Just then, rival teams ripped into orbit, bursting from temporal portals around the half-built Sphinx Satellite, their pods tricked out with solar sails and gaudy moon-glyphs.

“The warp drive’s ready!” Starlit yelled. “But we’ve got company!”

The wedding collapsed into chaos as Yogi, still collared like a reluctant bridegroom, took the controls. He piloted their pod through half-carved crystal corridors while other racers blasted after them.

“Hard left through the sphinx’s nose-port!” Blip barked. “And for the love of paradoxes, try not to sneeze this time.”

Behind them, one rival pod swerved into a giant cauldron of cosmic stew and emerged onion-scented. Yogi’s glowing collar jingled like sleigh bells every time he banked, announcing their presence across the tunnels. A confused builder flung a chisel at them, shouting, “Stop vandalizing the nose—our insurance hasn’t cleared!”

They burst through the lunar sphinx’s nostril in a spray of stardust, their warp drive humming with capstone power. Behind them, Peachy’s last moon-stream captured the princess waving goodbye, the High Priest chiseling new glyphs about the “Sun Raider Who Fled Through the Nose,” and several scribes already etching Blip’s emojis into official records.

“Next time,” Yogi said as they rocketed into the vortex, “let’s crash somewhere less monumentally important.”

“According to my calculations,” Blip replied, “we’re headed straight for medieval England. Statistically, nothing could go wrong there… unless you count 98% of medieval history.”

As the vortex swallowed them, the lunar sphinx let out a dusty sneeze that collapsed half its scaffolding. A young apprentice carved “EpicFail” into the base as a permanent note. And on the palace steps, the Moon Princess held Yogi’s lost boot aloft, declaring it a divine relic of the god who had slipped through her nose.

Chapter 17: Knights of the Racing Table

The temporal vortex spat Team Starborn’s vehicle into a misty clearing, sending them plowing straight through the wooden barrier of a medieval jousting tournament. Turkey legs, mead mugs, and peasants scattered in all directions, creating what looked like a historical theme park evacuation drill. Their futuristic pod skidded to a halt, leaving smoking tire tracks across the tournament grounds.

“Status report?” Yogi groaned, helmet half-on, half-off, his head spinning like a bad carnival ride.

“We’ve landed in medieval England, approximately 1200 AD,” AI Blip announced. Then it glitched into Shakespeare mode: “Forsooth, mine circuits detect high levels of temporal displacement, dear master!”

One peasant threw his mead at the pod and shouted: “Begone, glowing potato demon!” Another simply sighed, picked up his dropped turkey leg, and kept eating.

Peachy was already streaming. “OMG, followers! We just crashed a literal jousting tournament! MedievalVibes TimeTravel JoustingGoals!”

From the smoking hatch, Zippy Zephyr stumbled out still clutching his battered shell bag. He approached a vendor hawking roasted chestnuts and proudly slapped a conch on the stall.

“Shellcoin accepted here?” he asked hopefully.

The peasants gasped. “A relic older than the Orange Poo King who taxed our wells with stinky deals!” they whispered, awestruck.

Within seconds, the vendor bowed and handed Zippy all his chestnuts.

Zippy looked around smugly. “See? Economy always wins.”

Stella  flickered across a tapestry of King Arthur, her sundress tangled in embroidered vines. “Really, Zip? First Atlantis, now you’re cornering the nut market in medieval England?”

The Blade leaned lazily on the railing of the jousting lists, in full black velvet with a plume in his hat. “Oh, marvelous. Inflation by mollusk. This era didn’t suffer enough already.”

Cookie Girl toddled out with crumbs in her hair, holding a biscuit shaped like Excalibur. “Goo-goo,” she declared solemnly. The peasants immediately dropped to their knees, believing she was the Biscuit Oracle.

The crowd parted as a fully-armored knight thundered up, lance aimed straight at the pod. “Sorcery! Witchcraft! I, Sir Lancelot the Brave, challenge thee for this foul affront!”

“Oh great,” Starlit muttered. “Warp drive’s fried again. And now we’ve got a cosplay enthusiast with anger issues.”

“Accept it!” Peachy whispered, shoving Yogi toward the hatch. “Think of the clout! POV jousting content, baby!”

Before Yogi could refuse, Blip accepted the challenge via loudspeaker—in perfect iambic pentameter: “Good sir, thy challenge we shall gladly meet, upon this field where hoof and steel compete!”

“I don’t even know how to joust!” Yogi whined, but Peachy had already shoved him into a conveniently-parked suit of armor. It immediately pinched his arm hair.

The peasants gasped as Yogi awkwardly mounted a horse backwards. Peachy attached a holo-cam to his lance, inventing the first-ever Knight’s POV livestream.

Zippy leapt onto the sidelines and began taking wagers. “Shells against Sir Lancelot! Two-to-one odds! Guaranteed return on clams!”

The peasants dumped their coins and chickens into his pouch. Zippy’s eyes went wide. “Finally! Finance works when nobody has the internet!”

Stella ’s voice sighed from the tapestry: “Ziphy… you’re running a medieval crypto scam.”

Cookie Girl dipped her biscuit-sword into a mead barrel and slurped loudly. “Double goo-goo,” she mumbled. The peasants gasped louder, convinced it was a prophecy of Yogi’s victory.

The joust began. Yogi charged forward screaming with his eyes shut. By sheer dumb luck, his lance snagged the hinge on Sir Lancelot’s armor and flipped him neatly off his horse, landing him in a barrel of pickled turnips.

The crowd went ballistic. “The mysterious knight has triumphed!” cried the herald. Peachy’s chat spammed JoustingChampion across three centuries at once.

Zippy raked in winnings with both arms, then slipped on a turkey leg and scattered coins everywhere. The peasants scrambled after him in chaos.

The Blade applauded from the stands. “Delicious. Nothing like a rigged economy wrapped in slapstick.”

Before the applause died, a colossal roar shook the air. A dragon unfurled behind the castle walls—its scales gleamed metallic, its wings beat with the rhythm of malfunctioning engines.

“That’s no dragon,” Starlit said, scanning it. “That’s Team Nova’s racer! The vortex must’ve transformed it!”

Blip’s Shakespeare mode crashed mid-sonnet, reverting to normal: “Probability of steampunk Knights of the Round Table: 78%. Adjusting odds of dragon-themed TikTok trend: 99%.”

The peasants screamed and ran. Peachy squealed with joy: “Yes! It’s a crossover episode! DragonCollab.”

What followed was perhaps the least dignified aerial battle in medieval history: Team Starborn’s pod chasing a dragon-shaped racer above Camelot. Knights pointed spears at the sky, confused, while Peachy narrated like it was a reality show.

Blip couldn’t decide whether to give race stats or prophecy: “And lo, the dragon overtakes by two furlongs… or perhaps by the will of Mordred.”

Zippy tried to throw a shell at the dragon. It pinged harmlessly off its flank, bounced off a turret, and landed in a monk’s stew. The monk immediately declared it a holy dumpling.

Stella ’s flicker shimmered over the tower stones, shaking her head. “Only you, Ziphy.”

The chase ended with Yogi doing what he did best: crashing. He plowed into the tallest tower of Camelot, which toppled dramatically onto the mechanical dragon, crushing Team Nova’s racer and forcing them to retreat through a vortex.

Starlit fired up a quick memory-modifier pulse, making the locals remember “a traditional dragon attack.” Unfortunately, Peachy’s followers were already posting fan edits of mechanical dragons breathing plasma.

“Well, that was exciting!” Peachy chirped. “My medieval audience just blew up! I’m officially an influencer in four centuries!”

Yogi groaned inside his dented armor. “Can someone please get me out of this tin can?”

“Temporal anomaly detected,” Blip announced. “We should leave before—oh, never mind. Too late.”

A squad of knights galloped past. Their horses had rocket boosters strapped to their flanks. Flames shot out as they launched into the air like budget spacecraft.

Zippy pointed at them, grinning wildly. “Finally! A market for jet-horses! I’ll corner it with shells!”

The Blade’s voice drifted down, smooth as poison. “Yes, Zephyr. Sell seashells by the medieval seashore. That will end well.”

Cookie Girl waved her crumb-covered biscuit-sword at the rocket-horses. “Horsey goo-goo.” The peasants wept, convinced the prophecy foretold their new destiny.

“Time to go!” Starlit barked, slamming the warp drive.

As they vanished into the vortex, the knights shouted: “Onward! To the Quest for the Holy Nitro Boost!”

Peachy checked her notifications one last time. “Ooooh, King Arthur just followed me on Medieval Social! His handle is @OnceAndFutureInfluencer.”

The vortex snapped shut, leaving behind a medieval England forever altered—and somewhere, a monk illuminated the first manuscript of Sir Yogi and the Mechanical Dragon, doodling rocket-horses in the margins while a seashell floated mysteriously in his ink jar.

Chapter 18: Disco Flame

The temporal vortex spat Team Starborn’s ship directly through the roof of Studio 54, materializing in a shower of glitter and broken mirror balls. The pod, still smoking from its medieval “horse upgrade,” landed squarely on the disco floor in front of the judges’ table.

A rain of sequins settled on stunned dancers. One man in bell bottoms raised his martini and muttered: “I knew LSD was strong, but this is ridiculous.”

“Oh. My. Stars!” Peachy squealed, immediately yanking at her racing suit to rip strategic holes until it looked era-appropriate. Within seconds, she had somehow created a perfect sequin halter top. “We’ve crashed into peak aesthetic!”

“Warning,” Blip boomed, his voice suddenly dropping into a Barry White growl. “Funk contamination levels at 72%. Booty-shaking protocol armed.”

Yogi stumbled out of the cockpit, helmet backwards. “At least nothing’s on fire this ti—” His elbow smashed a disco prop, which tipped into another, which collapsed five mirror balls in succession. They exploded in a cascade of rainbow sparkles that drenched the floor in glitter fog.

The crowd erupted. “That’s my new signature move!” someone screamed. “The Yogi Shower!”

Peachy already had her holo-cam rolling. “Omg, followers—we’ve just invented the most iconic disco move of 1977! TimeTravel DiscoNotDead YogiShower.”

From the smoking hatch, Zippy Zephyr staggered out with his bag of shells. He immediately slapped one onto the judges’ table.

“Cover charge,” he said proudly.

The disco bouncers gasped. “A prehistoric shell? Worth more than Nixon’s secret tapes!”

Within seconds, Zippy was mobbed by Studio 54 regulars who thought the shells were designer tokens. Someone shouted, “They’re rarer than space coke!” Another whispered, “As old as that Orange Goo Guy who created the Smelly Deal Age!”

Stella  flickered inside a strobe light beam, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Congratulations, Zip. You’ve just invented disco crypto.”

The Blade leaned on the DJ booth, wearing a rhinestone tux that sparkled menace. “Delicious. You’re about to destabilize 1977 with seashell inflation.”

Cookie Girl popped out of the pod holding a cookie bigger than her head. She waved it solemnly at the disco ball. “Satellite goo-goo.”

A man in platform shoes dropped his drink. “She predicts low orbit spy satellites!” he shouted. Within minutes, someone scrawled “SPACE FORCE” in lipstick on the bathroom mirror and started recruiting a dance-fueled militia.

Starlit scanned the crowd. “Those aren’t just dancers,” she whispered. “Those are other racing teams!”

Sure enough, Team Nova’s pilot was “doing the hustle” while adjusting a stabilizer under his sequins. Team Quantum’s engineer crouched on the light-up floor, pretending to do the worm while secretly reassembling a chronometric engine.

Blip’s body lights synced to the music, pulsing rainbow. “Systems recalibrating. New primary directive: boogie.” He projected holographic dance diagrams, which the crowd immediately copied, thinking they’d just witnessed the future of dance instruction.

The announcer’s voice boomed. “DANCE-OFF!” A spotlight dropped on Yogi, who froze like a medieval deer.

“Our challenger: the mysterious new knight of funk!”

Peachy gasped. “The prize is solid gold platform shoes! Look at the heel—it’s crystalline chronorium! We need that to fix the drive!”

Zippy tried to bribe the DJ with a shell to change the beat. The DJ screamed: “He’s paying in ocean bones! He’s a prophet!” The crowd cheered and immediately formed a cult called Shell Funk Force.

Stella  facepalmed inside the strobe. “Ziphy… you’ve just launched disco-age space capitalism.”

The Blade leaned close to the turntable, his smile cutting sharper than the bassline. “The age of Goo, the age of Shell, the age of Satellites—every collapse is a beat drop.”

The crowd shoved Yogi onto the floor. His “dance style” resembled a malfunctioning washing machine in a thunderstorm, but every misstep accidentally aligned with the beat. His flailing arms traced geometry; his pratfalls became revolutionary footwork.

Peachy shrieked. “It’s called The Time Traveler! Copy it, everyone!”

Within moments, the crowd—and several centuries via livestream—were all imitating Yogi’s seizure-like genius.

Other teams tried to sabotage him by tampering with the tempo.

“They’re speeding it up!” Starlit yelled.

Blip, now fully disco-infected, overrode the sound system. “Deploying emergency groove. Beat now syncing to Yogi’s natural clumsiness.”

The remix was indescribable—future synth colliding with Gregorian chants and funk bass. Historians would later describe it as “the night time itself did the hustle.”

Team Nova lunged for the golden shoes. Yogi, spinning out of control, accidentally backhanded them into Team Quantum, who crashed into the conga line. The conga line absorbed them, dragging both rival teams away like quicksand made of polyester.

Blip screamed over the speakers: “Warning! Multiple timelines converging! Also: this beat is sick!”

The judges scribbled furiously. One of them, Starlit realized in horror, was Cleopatra herself, somehow misplaced from their Moon Influencer detour. She tapped her pen, unimpressed—until Yogi attempted a split and got stuck halfway. The silence stretched. Then Cleopatra stood, tossed her crown, and shouted: “Iconic!”

The announcer bellowed: “We have a winner!” Yogi collapsed in a glitter puddle, clutching the chronorium-heeled platforms.

Starlit ripped the shoes free and sprinted for the ship. “We’re leaving before time collapses!”

“But I’m trending in seven decades!” Peachy whined, refreshing her follower count.

As the pod took off, Blip’s speakers blasted a final bass line that rattled the chandeliers. “Exiting timeline in 4…3…2…boogie.”

The ship vanished in a flash of sequins, leaving behind:

A new dance craze (The Time Traveler, The Yogi Shower),

Cleopatra’s brief disco judging career,

A cult called Shell Funk Force,

And the first ever recruitment poster for the Orange Goo Age Space Force, which historians would later insist began in Studio 54’s bathroom.

Team Starborn’s temporal troubles reached new heights when Peachy’s holoscreen started spitting alerts from across multiple centuries.

“Um, guys?” she called out, scrolling furiously. “I think we may have… accidentally created the world’s first cross-temporal influencer crisis.”

The screen displayed Cleopatra hosting Ye Olde Medieval Cooking Hour, flamboyantly seasoning mutton with Egyptian spices while rocking a medieval gown over her royal headdress. The comments section overflowed with confused historians yelling in all caps.

“That’s not even the worst part,” Blip buzzed, his circuits glowing neon-red. “King Arthur is currently leading something called ‘Groovy Knights’ aerobic classes in 1977. Probability of jazzercise paradox: 64%. Probability of fashion paradox: 100%.”

Yogi, buried in cables, smacked his head on the console. “How did this even happen?”

Starlit sighed, pointing to a holo-graph full of jagged red lines. “Every time we crashed, we left holes in time. Historical figures… slipped through. Basically, we’ve turned history into Swiss cheese.”

Before anyone could respond, a booming orange hologram hijacked Peachy’s stream. The man’s hair glowed like a radioactive comet, his tie flapped in a temporal breeze.

“It’s me, the greatest leader across ALL centuries. They call me the Founder of the Goo Age. Tremendous age. Everybody loved it. Believe me.”

The hologram slapped down a glowing contract titled: MOON-A-LARGO: Kiss the Ring, Pay the Tariff.

“I built the best space force, the BEST. Low-orbit spy satellites, luxury golf domes, tariffs so good they cough up twenty shells each. You can’t believe it. But unless I get a Grog Shell—bigger than everybody else’s shell—you’re finished. Totally finished. Sad!”

Grog instinctively clutched his sack of shells. “No. Grog’s shells… story of sea. Goo man not take.”

Stella  flickered into the feed, crossing her arms. “Ignore him, Zip. He’s trying to tariff time itself.”

But Zippy panicked and slapped a shell onto the holo-screen. To his horror, the orange guy’s grin doubled. “Yes! Tribute! See? They pay me in shells now. Best currency ever invented. People say so.”

The Blade leaned into the frame, sipping disco champagne. “Ahh, perfect. The Goo Age meets the Shell Age. Tariffs become theology, satellites become idols. Shall we watch the implosion together?”

Cookie Girl waddled in, clutching a crumb the size of a satellite. “No. Goo man bad. Cookie better.” She smashed the cookie against the tariff screen. The hologram sputtered and glitched.

“Unfair! Rigged cookie!” the orange guy yelled before vanishing in static.

Back in Studio Camelot 1977, King Arthur thrust a dumbbell skyward. “Hoist thy legs higher, groovy knights!” His chainmail leg warmers jingled to the beat.

Half the crowd collapsed from exhaustion.

Yogi tried to reason with him. “Majesty, you need to return to Camelot.”

Arthur struck a pose. “Never! Here, we battle not with swords, but with funk! Also, they have smoothies.”

Blip whispered, “Timeline contamination levels rising. Also… I’ve added Arthur’s moves to my dance database.”

Meanwhile, Peachy and Starlit confronted Cleopatra in her castle studio. She tossed flour into the air, peasants applauded, and hashtags like PyramidPowerBread flooded Medieval-Gram.

Peachy hissed, “She has better metrics than me.”

Before they could intervene, Team Nova shimmered into the courtyard.

“Well, well,” their captain sneered. “Starborn: history’s clumsiest time vandals.”

“This was your plan!” Starlit snapped.

“We nudged,” Nova’s engineer said smugly. “We expected you to vanish, not trend across multiple eras. Somehow you’ve become… meme-proof.”

Blip beeped. “Timeline collapse probability: 87% and climbing. Also, I’ve composed a limerick about a knight who liked disco tights. Would you like to hear it?”

“No!” everyone shouted.

Peachy spun to her holo-cam. “Breaking news! Team Nova admits sabotage! Smash that like button if you think they’re losers!”

Across centuries, one-star reviews tanked Nova’s ratings. Cleopatra hissed, “Unsubscribe.” Arthur’s disco knights booed. The orange guy briefly reappeared in the corner of the holo-feed, yelling, “Witch hunt!” before being drowned out by boos and cookie emojis.

Finally, Yogi tripped on the emergency beacon and accidentally activated it. A glowing time-window opened.

King Arthur reluctantly returned to Camelot, dragging a scroll of mixtapes. Cleopatra agreed to go back to Egypt after Peachy promised a guest collab. Nova retreated, swearing revenge.

Blip tallied. “Historical figures restored: 97%. Minor anomalies remain: three peasants permanently in disco class, one Egyptian food critic. Also: Goo Age tariffs unresolved. Expect future shell inflation.”

Yogi collapsed. “At least the world didn’t end. Again.”

Peachy beamed. “And I’m still trending. Eat that, Nova.”

Starlit grumbled, welding the ship. “The timeline’s one pratfall away from collapse.”

“Next stop: Ancient Rome,” Blip announced. Then, without shame: “What did Caesar say to the clock? Et tu, Bruté?”

Everyone groaned as the pod spun into the vortex—just as, in the shadows of Moon-a-Largo, the Orange Goo Guy fondled a giant clam shell and whispered: “Bigger than Grog’s. The biggest. You’ll see.”

Chapter 19: Roman Holiday

The temporal vortex spat Team Starborn’s ship directly into the middle of the Circus Maximus, interrupting the most important chariot race in Roman history. Their disco-scorched pod skidded across the track, knocking over three chariots like bowling pins before crunching against a marble column.

“Good news,” Yogi groaned, crawling out of the cockpit. “We’ve kept our streak alive: another century, another lawsuit.”

The toga-clad crowd sat in stunned silence. One vendor dropped his amphora of wine, then picked it up and announced that he was now selling it as “limited edition, ship-flavored vintage.”

A senator near the track clutched his chest and fainted face-first onto his toga, later blaming “foreign upholstery demons.” One of the startled racehorses somehow managed to jam Yogi’s helmet onto its head and immediately galloped in circles. The crowd cheered as the horse accidentally crossed the finish line, earning second place. Meanwhile, a young Roman boy attempted to hurl a tomato at the wreck—but quickly reconsidered when he realized the tomato was worth more than his family’s house. He sighed and politely asked for Yogi’s autograph instead.

Peachy whipped out her holo-cam, angling herself with the wreckage for maximum drama. “Breaking news, followers! We just invented Formula 1, Roman edition! WhenInRome FastAndGlorious ChariotsOfFail.”

Her stream instantly exploded. Gladiators abandoned their arena to crowd the Circus Maximus, not to fight but to get in frame. “Honestly, darlings,” Peachy cooed, panning across the rows of togas, “these drapes are cute, but imagine them with sequins and maybe a glitter belt. Yes, I said it.”

Her followers went wild, demanding “Toga Hauls” across twelve centuries. One tailor in the audience began furiously sewing rhinestones into his toga mid-race and immediately tripped over his own hem, faceplanting into a hot dog vendor. A legionnaire strolled into Peachy’s shot, flexed his biceps, and the auto-caption system stamped it: Roman thirst trap. The stream’s likes quadrupled.

Through the dust and cheering strode a toga-clad man with curls like marble and a proto-tablet made of bronze and stone.

“By Jupiter’s beard, what manner of chariot is this?” he exclaimed, circling their pod with sparkling eyes. “I am Claudius Mechanicus, Chief Engineer of the Imperial Racing Academy.”

Starlit climbed out from the cockpit, grease streaked across her cheek, and froze when their eyes locked.

“I’m… overheating,” she blurted, then corrected quickly: “I mean, I’m Starlit.”

Claudius casually wiped his tablet on his toga, only to smear his sketches into an abstract mess. “Ah yes,” he declared proudly, “the world’s first washable blueprint!”

A goat wandered by and began chewing on Starlit’s wrench. She and Claudius both grabbed it at the same time, tugging back and forth until their faces were nearly touching. The crowd collectively gasped as if watching a romance drama unfold in real-time. Above them, Blip projected a shower of holographic fireworks with the unsubtle caption: ROMAN HOLIDAY ROMANCE – SUBSCRIBE NOW.

The sky flickered. A giant orange hologram appeared above the Circus Maximus like an angry god.

“ROME—pathetic!” the Goo Guy bellowed. “Sad chariots. No space force! If you want to stay relevant, you pay tariffs. I demand a Goo Age Shell—bigger than everyone else’s, especially that caveman’s!”

A hush fell. Grog, who had somehow rolled out of the vortex clinging to his shell pouch, bellowed: “Grog shell oldest, strongest! Goo man talk too much. Shell speak louder!” He slammed a conch on the marble. The echo shook the stadium.

Romans erupted in chants: “Shell! Shell! Shell!”

Stella  flickered in atop a marble column, glowing like stained glass. “Zip,” she said, her voice low and aching. “Worth is not in size—it’s in story.”

Zippy, already juggling three shells nervously, slipped and invented coin-flipping. A group of senators instantly began betting on “heads or tails” with solemn gravitas.

The Blade slinked from the shadows in a crimson toga edged with smug. “Oh, delightful—Rome debating shells and cookies while the Goo Age demands tariffs. Your history just became satire.”

Cookie Girl skipped across the track with a biscuit the size of a shield. “Cookies beat shells!” she declared, handing it to a gladiator. He wept openly and declared her the “true Caesar.”

The Goo Guy roared. “Unfair! Rigged cookie tariff! Goo Age never loses!”

Meanwhile, Yogi had wandered into the Senate, still looking for a bathroom.

“Ah! A foreign ambassador arrives!” a senator cried, mistaking Yogi’s shiny racing suit for ceremonial regalia.

Yogi stammered, “I… uh… need the toilet?”

Blip’s translator glitched and boomed: “Behold, citizens, a prophecy of flowing rivers!”

The chamber erupted in applause. Within an hour, Yogi was officially sworn in as Senator Yogiius, celebrated prophet of hydraulics.

…[original Roman Holiday story continues unchanged: bust statues, slapstick fall, Blip’s disco-glitch, robot gladiators, Claudius/Starlit romance beat, peachy runway, goat re-election gag, final launch escape]…

As their pod blasted skyward, sparks trailing over the Eternal City, the Circus Maximus still thundered with divided chants:

“SHELL! COOKIE! SHELL! COOKIE!”

Caesar himself stood with Grog’s conch in one hand and Cookie Girl’s half-eaten biscuit in the other, visibly torn. The Goo Guy’s hologram raged overhead: “Moon-a-Largo will collect its tariffs—you’ll see! Nobody leaves Rome without kissing the ring!”

But the vortex swallowed Team Starborn before the argument reached its punchline, leaving Romans forever debating which currency was divine—shells, cookies, or clout.

The multiverse had finally had enough.

As Team Starborn emerged from their latest temporal jump, they found themselves smack in the middle of what could only be described as rush hour for reality itself.

Timeline streams snarled together like Christmas lights last seen in a garage in 1983. Dinosaurs, knights, disco dancers, and confused Roman senators all honked their horns (literal horns, goat horns, car horns, war horns) in one gigantic, impossible jam.

“Um, guys?” Yogi whispered, clutching the wheel like it was a flotation device. “We broke time. Like, actually broke it this time.”

Through the viewscreen, a T-Rex in leg warmers moonwalked into Studio 54, while Egyptian priests zoomed past on hover-chariots taking selfies with Peachy’s Roman fans.

AI Blip, his voice flickering between medieval minstrel and disco DJ, intoned gravely:

“My temporal metrics are experiencing what humans call an existential crisis. Also, the timeline will collapse in three hours. On the bright side, I’ve written a breakup ballad about causality.”

Before he could sing, the ship lurched again. Outside, jousters on hoverbikes galloped through Roman streets, clashing lances with cavemen on rocket-powered mammoths.

Peachy gasped at her holo-feeds.

“Hashtag TimelineCollapse is trending in every century at once. Even the dinosaurs are subtweeting me! One just replied with 🍖😡.”

Starlit checked the readouts, jaw tightening. “It’s a feedback loop. Every accident we caused… multiplied. History’s become slapstick Swiss cheese.”

Cue visual proof:

A disco-ball pyramid rolled past their window, blasting Gregorian funk.

Pharaohs hustled on its balcony, throwing out glitter like parade candy.

A caveman booed their pod, hurled a chicken bone—then immediately asked Yogi to autograph it.

A Roman guard blew a whistle, scribbling on a wax tablet: 0/10 Chariot Parking.

“This is fine,” Yogi muttered. Then the caveman returned with another bone tablet that simply had a crude emoji middle finger carved into it.

“Incoming transmission,” Blip droned. “It’s every rival team.”

Screens filled with furious faces framed by their own paradoxes. Nova’s captain growled:

“As much as it pains me to admit it, the only way out is to… win the race.”

“Wait,” Yogi blinked. “I don’t win. I sort of… trip, fall, and accidentally win.”

Peachy clapped her hands. “Exactly! We choreograph the biggest disaster in history. Boom—ratings, glory, timeline fixed.”

Outside, chaos devolved into full cartoon.

A caveman astride a mammoth cut off a sequined knight.

The knight yelled “Move thy mammoth!” and brandished a laser lance.

The caveman just held up a middle-finger tablet 2.0, this time with sparkles.

Meanwhile, a scoreboard drone floated overhead, rating the mess:

“Yo momma would park time better than this. 2/10.”

The crowd booed time itself.

Yet somehow, cooperation began:

Nova tractor-beamed the disco pyramid back toward Egypt.

Stellar herded the hoverbike-knights into a medieval funnel.

Quantum coaxed the leg-warmer T-Rex back toward the Jurassic—though it stubbornly refused to remove its leg warmers.

“Stability up 15%,” Blip reported. “Though I will miss that dino’s cha-cha. Remarkably precise for such tiny arms.”

Peachy’s feeds exploded with anomalies:

“Cleopatra at Blockbuster. Wouldn’t rewind the tape. 1/10.”

“Medieval jester just became mascot of a Japanese game show.”

“Caveman just invented Uber by accident. Beta app called ‘UgghRide.’”

“The timeline won’t stabilize unless everything goes back,” Starlit said, fingers tracing the bronze gear Claudius had given her.

Peachy sighed and lifted a carved tablet that read Unsubscribe.

“It hurts, but… it’s the only way.”

Yogi whispered with genuine anguish: “Goodbye, free pizza Fridays.”

Even a caveman nearby muttered in broken Latin: “Yo momma invented better wheels.” The burn echoed across dimensions.

One by one, anomalies were shoved back through portals. Cleopatra dragged back to Egypt. Arthur yanked from disco class. Dinosaurs reluctantly surrendering VHS rentals. Reality began knitting itself together like an embarrassed grandmother repairing socks.

“All right,” Peachy grinned. “Ready for your biggest disaster yet, Yogi?”

“Oh, trust me,” he said, strapping in. “When it comes to failing spectacularly… I never disappoint.”

“Timeline collapse in twenty-three minutes,” Blip warned. “Also, my new single Funky End of Time drops tonight. Pre-save on Medieval Spotify.”

Through the window, the last paradox parade marched past: pharaohs, senators, jesters, disco dancers, and dinosaurs all locked into a cosmic conga line. At its front, a gladiator hoisted a sign:

HONK IF YOU’RE TEMPORALLY DISPLACED.

The conga slipped on a banana peel left by some joker in history. For three terrifying seconds, all of time glitched:

Dinosaurs dabbed.

Romans flossed.

Cleopatra hawked disco VHS tapes on QVC.

Then the universe hiccupped and reset.

A bored announcer drone yawned:

“Traffic update: all of time blocked. Yo momma says leave earlier.”

Yogi gripped the wheel, sweat dripping. “If time’s gonna collapse… let’s at least collapse in style.”

Chapter 20: The Final Lap

The fabric of reality was literally unraveling. Medieval tapestries fused with disco balls, while pterodactyls performed aerial ballet around the Eiffel Tower. A caveman waved a stone club engraved with “YOLO” as if he’d personally invented memes.

“Um, guys?” Yogi said, gripping the controls with both hands. “We officially broke time. Like… it’s totaled.”

AI Blip buzzed nervously, its voice flickering between monotone and medieval town crier:

“Hear ye, hear ye! Apocalypse imminent! Also… I want to write haikus about quantum mechanics.”

On the viewscreen, a massive cosmic scoreboard flickered into existence: Timeline stability: -3/10. Yo momma could hold reality together better. A trumpet fanfare followed, then it flashed a sad-face emoji before exploding into confetti shaped like middle fingers.

Peachy gasped as her holo-feeds lit up. “We’re trending in Ancient Mesopotamia! CuneiformCuties is exploding!”

“That’s it!” Starlit snapped her fingers, pointing to her holographic chaos-web blueprint. “Peachy’s social network isn’t just clout—it’s acting like a temporal net, holding the universe together!”

Claudius’s projection nodded proudly. “Yes! Like Roman roads… but infinitely stupider!”

Suddenly, a Babylonian scribe appeared on-screen, sweaty from clay tablet carving, holding one above his head that read in neat wedge-script: SUBSCRIBE OR PERISH. Then he dropped the tablet on his own foot and hopped away screaming, still managing to click “like.”

The feed shifted again: some Renaissance painter waved a fresco mid-brush and shouted, “Nice fresco, fam!” before returning to his canvas and accidentally painting a duck wearing sunglasses. In the corner, a monk photobombed with the first known selfie.

“The race IS time now,” Starlit explained, eyes gleaming. “Win the race, and we reset history.”

Yogi swerved violently to dodge a breakdancing knight who was riding a cybernetic mammoth, its tusks decorated with glowsticks. “Cool speech, but how does that keep me alive?”

“Every like, every share, every follow—it’s raw timeline energy,” Peachy said. “If we harness it, we can stabilize reality itself!”

AI Blip’s tone shifted to grandiose opera. “But the calculations required exceed even my godlike processors!”

Peachy grinned. “Then we crowdsource it.”

Instantly, their feeds blew up with the weirdest volunteer army in history. Socrates appeared mid-scroll, mumbling, “I only know that I must smash that like,” before smashing the thumbs-up button so hard his feed cracked.

A caveman scrawled “5 stars” onto a rock, nodded with satisfaction, then accidentally ate it. His stomach rumbled and he belched “LOL” in smoke signals.

Einstein himself appeared briefly in a pop-up window, hair wild, eyes blazing. He shouted, “RETWEET RELATIVITY!” before disappearing in a puff of chalk dust.

A crack tore open the sky, revealing a cosmic void of pure collapse. Other racers spiraled, screaming, their vehicles vanishing into the abyss. A stray announcer drone shouted: “Traffic jam rating: 0/10. Yo momma parallel parks better than this.”

“Do it!” Yogi yelled, pulling a barrel roll straight through a tsunami made of disco lights and jousting lances. His helmet spun backwards mid-roll and stuck that way.

Peachy launched her ultimate livestream: “Live from the end of time! Like and share to save the universe! OopsWeBrokeTime FinalLapVibes.”

Across history, chaos turned into collaboration. Ancient philosophers debated in livestream chat with 21st-century coders. Monks in candlelit rooms painstakingly illuminated golden manuscripts with emojis: “💀” in elegant calligraphy. A Viking raider barged in with a rune that just said: “SUBSCRIBE OR AXE.”

Somewhere in the far future, an AI posted simply: `subroutine: YOLO().`

A random medieval peasant screamed at the sky, “Yo momma can’t code C++!” and was instantly smited by a stray lightning bolt from the collapsing heavens. His donkey calmly typed “F” in the chat with its hoof.

AI Blip froze, then spoke with strange calm: “I understand now. Time is not linear. Time is a comedy of errors… and we are the punchline.”

Yogi’s eyes narrowed, uncharacteristically serious. “All my crashes, every single mistake—they weren’t failures. They were practice.”

Starlit’s holographic link flickered with Claudius’s face, their eyes locking across two millennia. Peachy hit record-breaking numbers on every platform at once, tears in her eyes from the absurdity of being the literal influencer of reality. Cookie Girl even popped in through a glitchy ad-banner holding a giant crumb and declared: “Snack break saves universes.”

Starlit whispered the impossible: “Thread the temporal needle the size of an atom.”

Yogi cracked a grin. “Finally—something easy.”

As they dove toward the collapsing void, three bizarre messages floated across their cockpit like pop-up ads from the universe itself:

A sign drifted past: GOOD LUCK, MORONS.

A celestial referee appeared in the stars, raising a glowing hologram card: Final Lap: Score TBD.

A T-Rex in leg warmers materialized beside their window, fist-pumped, and shouted: “YOU GOT THIS, BRO!” before vanishing into the vortex.

Team Starborn’s ship roared forward, fueled by chaos, likes, and the collective stupidity of history. Behind them, the entire racing grid fell in line, terrified but resigned to follow Yogi—possibly the most reckless pilot in existence. Even the Blade appeared in static form on their dashboard, clapping mockingly and whispering, “Crash beautifully, my darlings.”

“Hold onto your artifacts!” Yogi bellowed. “We’re about to make history… or delete it!”

With a final plunge, they hurled themselves into the anomaly.

The multiverse froze.

All that remained was confusion across time.

A gladiator checked his stone phone: 404: Time Not Found.

A monk sighed in his candlelit chamber: “This will really mess up the chronology section.” He threw his quill into the inkpot and went for a drink.

And the cosmic scoreboard flickered one last time across every sky in every era:

Race result: Pending. Yo momma is proud.

The temporal vortex swirled with chaotic energy as Team Starborn’s slapdash plan to harness Peachy’s cross-temporal social network reached its chaotic crescendo.

“So we either save time and space,” Yogi said, knuckles white on the controls, “or we create the biggest disaster in history?”

“Statistically speaking,” AI Blip replied, its voice flickering between disco beats and Shakespearean meter, “’tis the first time thy gift for catastrophe might be salvation instead of demolition.”

Peachy spun in her command chair, thousands of holo-screens orbiting her like planets. “We’re trending in every century! TimelineRestoration is literally breaking the internet… before the internet even exists!”

Starlit finished the final equations, clutching Claudius’s bronze medallion as if it were a lifeline. “The network is generating a stabilizing matrix. All we need to do is thread the needle through every timeline we trashed.”

The ship rocketed forward. The disco era collapsed neatly behind them, polyester snapping back into normalcy. Medieval knights dismounted rocket-horses, blinking as their laser lances dissolved into wood. One knight muttered, “Fair enough,” then kept humming Stayin’ Alive.

Just then, a glowing scoreboard drone zipped into view. It flickered with mocking text: Timeline fix progress: 2/10. Also, Yo Momma sews tighter paradoxes than this.

Behind it, a shaggy caveman tried to grab onto the tailfin of their ship to sneak through the vortex. He was stopped by a cosmic bouncer in a black robe, holding a clipboard and shaking his head. “Sorry pal, name’s not on the list. No shoes, no shirt, no timeline entry.”

Down on the track, a Roman senator sprinted along, holding a steaming pizza above his head like a torch. “Don’t forget Senate Pizza Fridays!” he shouted desperately, before tripping over his own toga and faceplanting into history.

Peachy was typing furiously. “Wait—sending a quick clarification post to Ancient Egypt. Hashtag: SorryAboutTheSphinx’sNose.”

Immediately, responses rippled across time:

In Babylon, a stone tablet appeared with fresh wedge-shaped letters that read: SUBSCRIBE OR PERISH. A bewildered scribe held it up, shrugged, and then smashed it dramatically for views.

In Florence, Michelangelo, mid-painting, suddenly sketched Peachy’s selfie onto the Sistine Chapel as a test draft. “Just warming up,” he told his apprentices.

Meanwhile, in feudal Japan, a monk carved “Blessed” into bamboo and proudly showed it to confused villagers, who politely clapped.

On Peachy’s feed, a T-Rex in neon leg warmers started live-streaming its squat routine. When it spotted Peachy’s stream stealing attention, it roared into the comments: UNFOLLOWING HUMANS.

A medieval farmer recorded a quick review, scratching it onto parchment: 2/5 stars. Too many knights in disco pants. Would not apocalypse again.

And finally, Cleopatra herself popped up on-screen, perfectly lit as always: “This is why I don’t collab with time travelers.” She adjusted her eyeliner and rage-quit.

“The race IS time now,” Starlit said, eyes blazing with revelation.

“Cool,” Yogi muttered, yanking the yoke as a jousting mammoth did the Macarena across their flight path. “But how does that keep me alive?”

“Every like, share, and angry comment—it’s raw timeline energy,” Peachy said. “If we channel it, we reboot the timeline!”

AI Blip lowered its voice into something dramatic and gravelly. “The calculations required would fry even my circuits.”

“Then we crowdsource,” Peachy grinned.

And suddenly, across their holo-feeds, history itself tuned in:

Socrates popped up in the comments section, frowning at the screen. “I only know… that this deserves a like.” He clicked and promptly confused half of ancient Athens.

A caveman chiseled five stars onto a rock, held it up proudly—then accidentally knocked himself out cold with it.

Einstein photobombed the stream, his hair even messier than usual. “RETWEET RELATIVITY!” he screamed, then dissolved into chalk dust.

In the far future, an AI scrawled code across the screen: `subroutine YOLO();` and promptly crashed its own mainframe.

The sky split like cheap fabric, the void sucking in rival racers. A tsunami made of disco light and Gregorian chants thundered across the track, swallowing half the grid.

“Do it!” Yogi yelled, barrel-rolling straight into the chaos like a man allergic to self-preservation.

Peachy raised her mic, voice steady. “LIVE FROM THE END OF TIME—LIKE AND SHARE TO SAVE EXISTENCE! OopsWeBrokeTime FinalLapVibes.”

The response was instant: Greek philosophers furiously argued memes with Silicon Valley coders. A monk carefully painted “💀” into a golden manuscript, while a medieval knight tried to clap along and knocked over a candle.

Meanwhile, a Roman graffiti artist spray-painted on a coliseum wall: BRB RESETTING REALITY.

A Viking warrior, drunk on ale and chaos, shook his axe at the sky and bellowed: “YO MOMMA INVENTED WHEELS!” A second later, the void yeeted him into oblivion like a soda can.

And somewhere in Paris, a French knight tipped a bewildered waiter two copper coins. “Merci,” he said gallantly. “But keep the temporal change.”

AI Blip’s circuits thrummed with revelation. “I see it now. Time is not a line… it’s a blooper reel.”

Yogi leaned forward, more focused than ever. “Every crash, every disaster… practice for this.”

Starlit’s medallion burned, and Claudius’s voice whispered in her ear: historia numquam morietur—“History never dies.”

Peachy’s follower count skyrocketed past the edge of mathematics. Somewhere in a math classroom in 2050, a chalkboard caught fire trying to calculate it.

Starlit whispered: “Thread the temporal needle the size of an atom.”

“Finally,” Yogi grinned, “something easy.”

A neon sign drifted across their cockpit like space garbage: GOOD LUCK, MORONS.

A celestial referee blew a whistle so loud the universe shuddered. Holding up a glowing card, he declared: Final Lap: Score TBD.

And from the collapsing edge of reality, a T-Rex in sparkly leg warmers roared one last encouragement: “YOU GOT THIS, BRO!” before dissolving into cosmic glitter.

The warp drive ignited with the collective absurdity of history. The ship screamed through the void, dragging every misplaced anomaly back to its rightful home. Dinosaurs winked out mid-dance, disco knights fizzled, and pharaohs dropped out of their conga line mid-step, muttering.

They burst free—astonishingly—onto the 3045 race track.

The crowd went ballistic as they crossed the finish line in first place.

“In a shocking twist,” the announcer boomed, “Team Starborn wins the Galactic Grand Prix!”

Team Nova limped across the line behind them, rolling their eyes. “Congrats,” their captain sighed. “But for real—never do that again.”

The scoreboard flickered and updated: Timeline restored: 10/10. Comedy score: pending.

A medieval monk in the stands closed his manuscript and sighed, “Well… that chapter was impossible to illuminate.”

On Peachy’s feed, Cleopatra appeared one last time, screamed “Unsubscribed. Again.” and rage-quit in eyeliner perfection.

Blip was handed the first-ever AI Racing Trophy for “Most Creative Course Corrections in History.” It delivered a one-line time travel joke with such perfect comedic timing that the stadium wheezed with laughter.

Peachy’s account stabilized at infinity plus one, verified across dimensions. Even cavemen were now subscribed.

Yogi shuffled onto the podium, still processing. “I guess sometimes you have to break time… to fix it.” Then he immediately tripped, sending the trophy rolling into the crowd, where it knocked over three senators and started a viral trend called YogiDrop.

A commentator drone deadpanned: “Classic Yogi.”

The crowd broke into a supportive chant: “FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!”

From the nosebleed section, a lone caveman stood, waving his club and yelling: “YO MOMMA IS THE TRUE CHAMPION!” The stadium roared in agreement.

Later, in their pit stop, Starlit tapped her medallion. A flickering hologram of Claudius appeared, teaching “divine inspiration” blueprints to Renaissance engineers. She smiled quietly, knowing his brilliance would live on disguised as miracles.

“So…” Peachy stretched. “Same time next race?”

“Technically impossible,” Blip corrected smugly.

Yogi strapped in, grinning. “Then let’s make history again. I promise to crash into something interesting this time.”

A hiccup of the timeline showered the bay with sparkling chronorium confetti.

And high above, the cosmic scoreboard lit one final message:

Race Result: WINNERS. Yo Momma is proud.

The confetti blurred, static crackling at the edges of reality.

Zippy Zephyr stumbled, sequins torn, half-dragged by the last hiccup of the vortex. Stella ’s sundress flickered in and out beside him. The Blade leaned lazily against nothing, clapping slow. Cookie Girl wandered past, eating a biscuit shaped like the moon.

“Race is over,” Zippy wheezed. “So why am I still falling?”

“Because,” The Blade smirked, “your story’s not done. Time is a track, but genre? Genre is a trap.”

Stella ’s voice ghosted through the churn: “Zip…” A hand almost touched his, but the light snapped.

The vortex twisted. Stadium roar became rotor thrum. Confetti became floodlight glare.

Zippy fell sideways into a darker narrative.

Chapter 21: The Recruitment

The world went dark.

Alex Ashford stirred awake to the press of rough rope digging into his wrists. A blindfold cut across his eyes. Beside him, another body shifted—warm, close, cuffed to his arm.

A voice, low and sharp, cut through the rumble of engines.

“Careful. You’re crushing my arm.”

“Not my choice,” Alex muttered, adjusting against the restraint. “Unless you think I planned tonight’s bonding exercise.”

The helicopter lurched hard, jerking them both sideways. Shoulder to shoulder, they collided—her palm flattening briefly against the ridges of his abdomen, his wrist brushing the curve of her midsection. Both froze.

She pulled in a controlled breath, voice calm but edged.

“Sixpack. Figures.”

He gave a half-smile she couldn’t see. “Professional hazard. Yours isn’t exactly unremarkable either.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was charged. Even blindfolded, Alex caught the faintest trace of her fragrance under the smoke and grease of the chopper: floral, citrus, distracting. She must have noticed too, because she said, almost absently:

“You don’t smell like I expected.”

“Unexpected good?” he teased.

A pause. Then softly: “Distracting.”

From the cockpit came the frantic clatter of switches and a voice trying to sound official and failing spectacularly.

“Uh—this is your… pilot. Commencing, uh, routine turbulence. Totally normal. Please do not… touch each other.”

The helicopter dove.

Warning sirens blared. Alex’s muscles coiled. The woman at his side—Stella Knight, he’d learn later—felt the change in him at once.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” she said, masking curiosity with mockery.

“Not nervous. Calculating,” he answered, though his jaw was tight.

The dive became a wobbling zigzag. In the cockpit, Ziphy Zephyr—mechanic trainee, not pilot—yanked a lever with the terrified gusto of a man defusing a cartoon bomb. His elbow hit the trim. The chopper pitched sideways. A training panel dropped from the ceiling and whacked him on the ear.

“I meant to do that!” he barked to nobody, headset cords snaring his neck. “Routine… test of, uh, gravity.”

The cabin bucked. The motion slammed Alex and Stella together, breath to breath. Cuffs scraped skin; her palm fixed at his stomach, his fingers—without permission—found the line of her waist. The air between them changed temperature.

“Let go,” she warned.

“Can’t,” he said, steadying her as the floor fell away again. “Won’t.”

“Absolutely cannot,” came the same panicked voice from the cockpit, followed by a thunk and a groan. “Hands… off protocol! I’m reading that from a manual!”

“Is the manual upside down?” Alex muttered.

“Possibly,” the voice admitted.

The helicopter jolted one final time and then, blessedly, stabilized—mostly because Ziphy had slid off the seat and was lying on the pedals in a position that accidentally corrected the yaw.

Moments later, the skids kissed concrete. Doors wrenched open. Gloved hands tore away blindfolds and hauled the pair upright, still cuffed. Floodlights chewed through the darkness.

They were hustled into a waiting van.

This time, it was her turn to betray tension—the tautness of her posture, the way her breath quickened. Alex sensed it. Without thinking, he leaned closer and murmured:

“They’re just trying to rattle us. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

Her hand eased against his. For a heartbeat, their silence shifted—no longer hostile, but tentative. A truce.

The van screeched to a halt and spat them into a cavernous warehouse. Spotlights snapped on overhead. A line of agents watched, unreadable. From the shadows, a sleek, black sedan rolled forward like a verdict.

Boltcutter steel bit. The cuffs fell. Wrists raw but free.

A suited handler gestured. “Mr. Ashford. Ms. Knight. Welcome to the recruitment process.”

Hours earlier—across town—the same sedan had nosed to a curb for Alex Ashford, who the public knew as “Liam” on dust-jacket flaps. He’d stepped out to the kind of night that carried a challenge in its cool. A smartly dressed agent met him in the lobby of a building that looked boring on purpose.

“Mr. Ashford,” the agent said, “the Agency for Covert Intelligence & Defense has a proposition for you.”

“I’m listening,” Alex replied, already smiling like a man who knew he would say yes.

Unmarked corridors. Air that smelled faintly of disinfectant and power. The briefing room’s walls glowed with high-tech discretion.

“The Heartthrob program,” the agent said, voice level, “seeks the charismatic, adaptable, emotionally intelligent. Succeed, and you’ll hold a key others spend lifetimes hunting. Are you interested?”

“When do I start?”

“Now.”

Across the city, Stella Sinclair—known professionally as Stella—stood in the doorway of her own summons, posture relaxed in the way of people who are never relaxed.

“And what exactly are the true objectives of this ‘Heartthrob’ competition?” she asked, blue eyes narrowing.

“The right blend of espionage and entertainment,” the agent said. “And power for the one who masters both.”

Her mind flicked through the angles, weighing lies against useful lies. A nod. “Very well. When do I begin?”

“Tomorrow.”

She didn’t smile as the door shut. But her breath drew deeper, the way it does when something finally matches your stride.

The next morning, the ACID training facility rose out of jungle cliffs like a rumor given steel. Glass, concrete, ocean. Gates that whispered open instead of clanging. Cameras that never blinked.

Inside, candidates assembled under a stern-faced instructor whose scars told the back half of sentences his mouth didn’t bother finishing.

“Welcome to Heartthrob,” he said, voice resonant. “You will be tested to the limits of your physical, tactical, and emotional capacity. Adaptability. Charisma. Intelligence. Only one of you will emerge with the title and the access that comes with it. Failure is not an option.”

Alex and Stella exchanged a glance that was not a greeting. It was an agreement to war.

Ziphy Zephyr, wearing a tech’s badge and yesterday’s confidence, passed behind the line of recruits, shouldering a crate labeled SENSORS (FRAGILE). He tripped over nothing and saved the box with a ballet of panic. A bouquet—who brings a bouquet to a black-ops compound—was jammed into a side pocket of the crate, stems out, petals shedding down the corridor like confetti. He kicked a fallen blossom under a console and tried to look invisible.

The day opened like a knife. Surf drills that replaced pride with salt. Climbing walls that made hands forget softness. Obstacle courses that taught how earth can decide it doesn’t want you on it anymore.

In the sparring ring, Alex’s reflexes made the air look slow. Stella adapted with the kind of precision that turns movement into chess. Their bodies mapped each other’s rhythms until strategy felt like flirting.

Ziphy, crouched at the edge of the mat with “maintenance,” eased the bouquet from the crate. Not to be romantic—never that—but to detonate a distraction. He scuttled along the wall like a guilty thought, staying out of the instructors’ sightline, and lunged for the bench where Stella’s towel lay.

“Just a little floral chaos,” he whispered, tapping petals onto the cloth—right as Alex skidded and brushed past him, shoulder catching Ziphy’s wrist. The bouquet kissed Alex’s forearm in a full-body smear. Perfume fused with sweat.

Stella halted mid-combination. She inhaled, eyes narrowing at the scent that was not hers. Her jab landed with new economy, each strike a question she chose not to ask.

“You fight dirty,” she said, voice cool.

“Only when losing clean,” he replied, catching her wrist and letting go the instant it would have been too long.

On the perimeter, Ziphy watched the sparks and winced. “Perfect. I scented the wrong one.” He slipped the stems behind a speaker. They fell with the soft, accusing sound of failure.

Weapons drills sang next: magazines seating with metallic certainty, the exact heaviness of things that end conversations. Side by side at the line, Alex shot like water finds the fastest path. Stella’s shots formed a geometry a mathematician would have written home about if mathematicians wrote from firing ranges.

She leaned in just enough to be heard. “Who was she, Liam?”

He frowned. “What?”

“The perfume.”

For once, he had no quip. He chambered the next round and stared downrange as if the answer might be printed on the target.

Ziphy, hearing that one line land, buried his face in both hands. “I am the villain in my own B-plot.”

The late afternoon brought simulated missions: laser-tight patrols, watchtower arcs, shadows that punished the unplanned. Stella led with surgical calm, Alex improvised with infuriating success. Their rhythm, when it wasn’t brittle, was almost an apology for the earlier ring.

Ziphy, consigned to “systems support,” attempted a stealthy sabotage of the floodlight rig—intending one dramatic outage to skew the guard pattern and make Alex bungle. He misread a dial. All the lights exploded on at once. Every shadow died.

“Who did that?” an instructor barked.

Ziphy flung himself bodily over the control board like a martyr protecting a sacred relic. “It was—maintenance. Heat test. We care about your lumens.”

In the new noon-bright darkness, Alex’s hand found Stella’s shoulder, not to steady her but to move with her. She let him for a beat longer than necessary. They ghosted past a watchman who never knew they’d been near enough to count his breaths.

The debrief flayed without malice.

“Teamwork is everything,” the lead instructor said. “You two are dangerous. Choose whether that danger is to each other or to the rest of us.”

Alex held still. Stella did not blink.

Ziphy stared very hard at his clipboard, where he had drawn a small, doomed heart with tow cables attached.

Evening put them in suits. Glasses clinked. Wealth performed itself with good lighting. The ACID gala was not a party; it was a camera test for masks.

Alex crossed the room like a rumor you wanted to hear again. Stella moved through conversation as if trimming sails in a shifting wind—three degrees of angle, everything changes.

From the service hall, a waiter emerged with a tray of tea and jasmine scones. The waiter was Ziphy. The tray was heavier than conscience. He had practiced the route. He had marked the bump in the carpet. He had not accounted for the heel of his shoe deciding it was finished with him.

He tripped.

The tray flew in a slow, operatic arc. A comet of scones and porcelain sailed over the heads of two donors and buried Alex and Stella in an avalanche of jasmine and very expensive embarrassment. Tea cascaded—mercifully warm, not scalding—down Alex’s lap and Stella’s wrist.

Ziphy crashed to his knees, eyes enormous. “I am so… so profoundly… enthusiastic about refreshments.”

Alex’s laugh came out as a single disbelieving exhale. Stella stared at her wrist where tea had chosen to linger, then at the man who had appeared at exactly the moment humiliation could be shared.

“Are you hurt?” Alex asked her, already offering his handkerchief.

“I’m furious,” she said, taking it anyway.

Ziphy tried to stand and stepped on a scone. It fired him backward into a marble column with the dignity of a circus cannon. He slid down, mortified, jasmine petals gluing themselves to his jacket like confetti at a wedding where he had not been invited.

The evaluators on the balcony whispered. Down on the floor, the music swelled, as if bribed.

Alex leaned in, voice low. “You know, Stella, I must say, you’re quite impressive. But don’t think for a moment that you can outmaneuver me in this competition.”

Her lips curved—something sharp and almost amused. “We’ll see about that, Liam. I’m just getting started.”

Between them, the air tightened—not a threat, not yet; a promise of what a threat might feel like.

Ziphy, back on his feet, clutching his traitor-tray, watched the line of their eye contact and understood—miserably, comically—that every attempt he made to pry them apart only soldered them closer.

He whispered to himself, as Cookie Girl’s voice chimed in his memory like a bell: Next time, Ziphy. Next time you’ll get it right.

From the mezzanine, The Blade—no one’s plus-one, everyone’s genre switch—observed the room with a smile that meant nothing good for anyone who believed in perfect scripts.

And the night kept moving, as nights do when the test has already begun, and the proctor is everywhere at once.

Chapter 22: The Selection Process

The convoy of black SUVs wound along a coastal road before grinding to a halt at towering gates of steel. Beyond them, the ACID training compound stretched across jungle cliffs and white-sand beach, gleaming like a fortress carved into paradise.

Alex Ashford stepped out first, squinting against the salt-bright air. His pulse quickened. This was no ordinary military installation—it pulsed with power and exclusivity, every line of its sleek architecture daring them to falter.

Stella Knight climbed out of the next SUV, her cool blue eyes sweeping the compound with suspicion rather than awe. She caught Alex looking. For a fraction of a second their gazes locked, before she broke it with a tilt of her chin.

A broad-shouldered instructor, ex-Navy SEAL by the look of him, barked them into formation.

“Welcome, candidates. You have been selected for the prestigious Heartthrob program—a competition that will push you to the edge of your physical, tactical, and emotional limits. Only the strongest will advance. Failure is not an option.”

A ripple of tension ran through the group. Alex squared his shoulders, adrenaline sparking. Stella folded her arms, unreadable. But when the instructor’s eyes swept over them both, she felt the echo of Alex’s determination like heat off stone.

From the logistics catwalk above, a tech in an orange vest leaned too far over the railing. Ziphy Zephyr, now “upgraded” to Assistant Systems Coordinator (self-appointed), juggled a tablet, a coil of rope, and a laminated card titled Ten Ways to Reduce Friction in Romantic Environments. He flipped the card, crossed out Reduce, wrote Increase, and underlined it three times. “I’m here to reduce perfection,” he whispered. “Via science.”

The morning drills began at the shore. Surfboards were shoved into their hands. Balance training, they were told—but the instructors clearly enjoyed watching recruits get swallowed by the waves.

Alex leapt onto his board with reckless confidence, catching the rhythm of the swell almost immediately. Stella studied the breaks, then launched after him, her approach more precise, her stance low and calculated.

Ziphy, crouched behind a duneside wind sock, unveiled his first innovation: a pocket-size “micro-current enhancer” he’d built from a drone battery and a weather sensor. “Just a tiny nudge,” he said, squinting at the whitecaps. “Tilt him off balance, then gallantly she rescues him—boom, lesson learned.”

He thumbed the switch. The device hummed. Every board on the water caught the same side-push at once.

Candidates pinwheeled into each other like billiard balls. Alex knifed toward Stella in a spray of foam; she pivoted to avoid him and a wave body-checked them together. His hand found her waist as he steadied them both. For a moment, her palm pressed against the hard plane of his chest. The contact was accidental, but neither of them moved right away. The roar of the surf and the press of her scent—salt and something sharp-citrus—made the moment linger.

She recovered first, shoving him off.

“Don’t get any ideas. I can stand on my own.”

Alex grinned, water dripping into his eyes. “Didn’t look like it.”

Ziphy powered the gadget down and exhaled, triumphant. Then the wind sock caught a rogue gust, slapped him in the face, and dragged him ten yards across the sand like a disgraced kite.

Stella rode a wave clean to shore minutes later. Alex clapped once, grudging. She noticed. And though her glare stayed, her lips twitched at the edges.

Later, they were pitted head-to-head on a climbing wall that towered against the compound’s concrete frame. Ropes snapped taut, fingers chalked, muscles straining.

Ziphy had studied the route map and dabbed a tiny bead of “grip neutralizer” (olive oil in a lab dropper) on a single hold Alex was certain to use—just enough to make him reach left; she’ll save him by spotting the better route, they’ll exchange a look, chemistry ignites.

“Try to keep up, Stella,” Alex called over his shoulder, his grin hidden in sweat.

“Keep talking, Liam,” she shot back, breathless but cool, reading the wall like a map.

Alex reached the sabotaged hold—then adjusted naturally, switching to a crimpy seam above it without missing rhythm. Stella mirrored, swift and fluid. Ziphy watched his orchestrated stumble evaporate and, in a panic to “help,” tossed a chalk ball toward Alex’s next reach.

It burst midair in a magnesium snowstorm that blinded three nearby candidates and set off the wall’s dust sensors. Sirens whooped. The fans kicked to hurricane. Alex and Stella locked into motion—he anchored a knee and offered his forearm, she planted a palm there and vaulted past the trouble section in one clean move.

Every reach, every grunt, became a duel—until Alex scrambled over the top a heartbeat ahead. He dangled down, flashing a triumphant grin.

“Told you I’d beat you.”

Stella swung up beside him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t get too comfortable. This is just the beginning.”

Their words were sharp, but their closeness—chests heaving, arms brushed together against the sunlit ledge—betrayed something neither admitted aloud.

Ziphy, chalk-spattered and wheezing from fan blast, scribbled on his card: No more clouds. Wind is a bully.

The obstacle course sprawled across the facility’s rugged interior: barbed wire, slick walls, mud pits, balance beams. At the whistle, Alex and Stella lunged forward, leaping, ducking, shoving each other out of the way with feral intensity.

“They need adversity,” Ziphy muttered from the timing booth. He had commandeered a maintenance tablet and a crate of “environmental enrichments”: a smoke puck, a foam launcher, and a collapsible “motivational” banner that read HONESTY OVER PERFECTION in accidental glitter font.

Ziphy triggered the smoke puck to drift across Alex’s lane at the tire run, intending a dramatic stumble and a gallant pull-up from Stella. The cross-breeze shifted. The smoke blossomed under the barbed wire crawl instead, forcing Stella to belly-through in zero-visibility. Alex slid in beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder, counting out her breaths.

“Three planks left,” he whispered. “On my go.”

She could have refused. She didn’t. Their elbows touched through grit as they surged forward together.

They rolled under coils, boots caked in dirt, shoulders knocking as they scrambled over walls. She shoved him at one turn; he blocked her with a sidestep at another. By the finish line, they collapsed across it together, both gasping, both grinning despite themselves.

The instructors exchanged knowing glances. “Impressive,” one murmured.

Alex dragged a muddy hand across his brow and caught Stella’s gaze. For a second, pride softened her features. Then she snapped her mask back in place.

Ziphy fired the foam launcher to release a celebratory confetti burst. It belched a dense white rope that coiled around his own ankles like a python and tipped him into the mud pit headfirst. He surfaced, blinking, a crown of weeds on his head. “Message… received,” he sputtered, and scrawled on the card: Confetti is treacherous.

Afternoon brought the sailing drills. Sleek black yachts cut across the harbor, sails snapping in the wind. Stella took the helm with surgical precision, shouting crisp calls as though she’d been born on a deck. Alex countered her logic with instinct, daring maneuvers that risked capsizing but kept them moving fast.

Ziphy, assigned to “mark maintenance,” had rigged a training buoy with a speaker that would emit a subtle “course correction tone”—a metronome cue, he thought, to lure Alex wide and make him miss a tack, prompting Stella to seize control. He activated it. The loudhailer, accidentally cross-wired to the mark, blasted a crooning ballad over the bay at jet-engine volume:

“—AND I CHOOSE MESSY OVER—”

The yacht lurched. Stella stumbled—Alex’s hand caught her elbow, anchoring her inches from falling across the deck. Their faces drew close in the salt spray, hair tangling in the gusts. Her breath caught. His eyes flicked to hers.

She pulled away, voice flat. “Next time, I’ll let you go overboard.”

“Sure you will,” Alex said, but the grin that followed wasn’t smug. It was softer.

On the chase skiff, an instructor held the loudhailer like it was a venomous snake. Ziphy pretended to tie a knot around his own mouth and wrote: No more serenades. Ever.

That evening, they faced their first paired simulation—infiltrating a compound under watchtower lights. Stella took point, analyzing patterns of patrols, while Alex moved fluidly at her side, improvising gaps she hadn’t seen.

Their rhythm was tense but undeniable. Every time she signaled, he was already moving. Every time he faltered, she covered him. The grudging respect was wordless, etched into the way their shoulders aligned, the way their breathing synced in the dark.

Ziphy had one last “smart assist”: a pocket EMP the size of a matchbox. He’d timed it for a four-second blackout to gift them a window—and maybe make Alex misstep enough to bruise his shine. He clicked it.

Every light in the training valley died. Then, with the vindictive enthusiasm of an overcorrecting grid, every light blazed to full intensity, including the stadium floods, the perimeter flares, and a row of backup beacons no one had seen used in years. Searchlights pinned everything that moved. An owl changed careers on the spot.

In the sun-bright night, Alex shielded Stella with his shoulder as they dashed to the lee of a generator housing. She didn’t waste the cover.

“Three-count,” she breathed. “Left tower rotates late.”

“Copy.” He didn’t ask how she knew. He matched her timing like a second language.

By the time they secured the intel and slipped out, Stella risked a glance at him. For the first time, she didn’t see arrogance. She saw partnership.

Up on a berm, Ziphy stood with the dead EMP in his palm, eyes burning, jaw set. He pocketed it like a penance and wrote on his card—slowly, carefully: If you can’t make him worse, make him safe. Try that, Ziphy. Try that next time.

The psychological tests followed, stripping them bare. Alone in rooms with clinical voices, each was forced to confront ghosts. Alex clenched his fists as questions peeled at his toxic past—the manipulation, the betrayal. Stella snapped at hers, refusing to admit how much the old wound of betrayal still bled.

Ziphy paced the corridor outside the psych suites, holding a paper cup of water and an idiotic plan to “deliver a morale boost” by slipping a note under each door: Messy is okay. He crouched, slid the first note… and froze, hearing Alex’s voice fracture mid-answer, soft with a pain Ziphy had never heard in him.

The second door muffled Stella’s silence, which somehow sounded louder than shouting.

Ziphy gathered the notes back up with shaking hands and fed them into the shred bin like confessions.

When they emerged, faces pale, eyes shadowed, they found each other in the compound’s quiet corner. Silence hung between them, thicker than rivalry.

Alex spoke first, voice rough.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. The psych eval.”

Stella’s gaze flickered, softer for a moment before sharpening again.

“I don’t need pity.”

“That’s not what I meant. I get it. I’ve been there.” His voice was low, uncharacteristically open.

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He told her. She listened. And when she admitted—quietly—that she knew the same feeling, their hands brushed. Tentative. Charged. Neither pulled away right away.

The whistle of an instructor cut the moment in half. They stepped back quickly, masks slamming into place.

But as they returned to training, the ghost of that almost-touch followed them like a shadow.

From the mezzanine, Ziphy watched them go—mud-streaked, sea-salted, a little cracked where perfection had used to be—and finally understood the worst and best thing at once: he hadn’t learned the lesson he kept trying to fake. Not yet. He still wanted to engineer truth instead of tell it.

He didn’t give up.

He folded the ruined cue card and tucked it into his vest like a medal, then marched off to break something else for the right reason and the wrong way.

Chapter 23: The Crucible

The towering doors of the combat simulation arena slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the cavernous space pulsed with sterile light and tension. Sparring mats stretched across the floor. Weapons racks gleamed with steel and carbon fiber. The faint tang of oil and ozone lingered in the air—a scent that promised bruises and broken pride.

The candidates filed in, boots heavy, shoulders stiff. Alex walked with a swagger that disguised the hum of anticipation in his chest. Beside him, Stella kept her chin high, jaw tight, blue eyes cutting across the room with surgical focus.

A Navy SEAL of a man, scarred and broad, stepped forward. His voice cracked like thunder.

“Welcome, candidates. This arena will be your proving ground. You’ll fight hand-to-hand, master every weapon at your disposal, and learn to adapt under pressure. Only the strongest, most disciplined, will remain.”

The group straightened instinctively. Alex felt the adrenaline bite, sharp and addictive. Stella’s fists flexed once at her sides, betraying nerves only he noticed. He stored it away.

Up in the rafters, a tech with an orange vest and catastrophic optimism hustled along the catwalk, hugging a crate of “sanitation supplies.” Ziphy Zephyr had labeled the crate with a new motto: CONTROLLED VARIABLES = CONTROLLED FEELINGS. Under it, in smaller handwriting: (This time for sure.)

He pried the lid and lifted out a silver can labeled MAT-NEUTRALIZER (CITRUS HERBAL). “Just freshening the mats,” he told a passing instructor. “For hygiene.” He shook the can like a maraca and dusted the sparring lanes in a fine, invisible mist that smelled faintly—inescapably—like jealousy bait.

They were paired almost immediately. Alex and Stella faced each other across the sparring mat, eyes locked in a silent dare.

“Try not to go too easy on me, Stella,” Alex drawled, rolling his shoulders loose.

She smirked, though her pulse picked up. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Liam.”

The signal came—and they collided.

Feet slapped the mat, fists cut the air. Stella fought with calculated precision, every jab plotted like a chess move. Alex flowed like water, switching styles mid-exchange, slipping just out of reach, grinning when he landed a strike across her ribs. She gasped—sharp, involuntary—and fury lit her eyes.

She pressed forward with a volley of rapid blows, forcing him back. Sweat slicked their forearms where they locked in a grapple. The scent on his skin was crisp and wrong—citrus layered over something floral. Her nose twitched. For the length of a blink, distraction won.

That’s not just training sweat.

He used the hitch to twist free and score a kick that sent her stumbling.

“Still keeping up?” Alex panted, breath hot, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“You fight dirty,” she said coolly, sliding back into stance. Inside, the scent gnawed. Not hers. Someone else’s. Why should it matter? He wasn’t hers. But the burn of it lingered, fueling each strike that followed.

On the catwalk, Ziphy winced at the unintended consequence, then produced Phase Two: a squeeze bottle marked COOL-DOWN (MINT). The plan—dab Alex’s wrist wrap during the next reset so his pulse would drop, his hands relax, the tempo soften. He descended a maintenance ladder at speed, tripped on the last rung, and—still falling—thumbed the sprayer. A micro-jet arced in a perfect parabola and landed in Stella’s hairline.

She blinked. A cold tingle ran across her scalp. It smelled like gum and interrogation.

“Routine decontamination,” Ziphy blurted, upside down and halfway under the ropes. An instructor stared at him until he evaporated toward the supply closet like fog in a high wind.

They drove each other until sweat blurred their vision and their lungs burned raw. When the instructor finally barked “halt,” both staggered back, chests heaving.

“Impressive,” the SEAL rumbled, a glimmer of approval crossing his scarred face. “You two push each other harder than anyone else. That makes you dangerous—to yourselves, or to everyone else.”

Alex flashed a grin. Stella’s expression stayed tight, the scent still replaying, the slip still needling.

Ziphy scribbled on his wrist with a sharpie: LESS PERFUME, MORE PHYSICS.

Later, during weapons drills, tension followed them to the line. Side by side at the firing lane, they loaded magazines in silence. Every shot rang out like a gauntlet thrown—Alex’s instinctive fluidity against Stella’s icy precision.

Ziphy swapped in “anti-slip chalk” at station three—really just rosin to stabilize Alex’s grip so he’d stop overcorrecting—and, in a burst of generosity, slid a fresh set of ear pro across the bench: a left bud tuned to range commands, a right bud… unintentionally tuned to a coaching channel Ziphy had been using to practice “confidence scripts.”

Alex lowered his rifle after a tight string, flashed a cocky smile—then blinked as the right bud murmured in Ziphy’s voice: “You’re doing great, champ. No, authentic. Say something authentic.”

Stella leaned just close enough to murmur, eyes downrange, “Who was she, Liam?”

His brows knit. “What?”

“The perfume,” she said flatly. “I noticed it earlier. Not mine.”

The right bud filled Alex’s skull with Ziphy’s frantic whisper: “Tell her the truth. Not ‘I love you.’ Something messy. Like ‘You terrify me.’ Or ‘I can’t breathe when you look at me.’ Or—”

Alex plucked the bud out like it was burning and set it on the shelf. For once, he had no quip. Stella fired three rounds into the bullseye, each a period at the end of a sentence she didn’t want to say out loud.

Ziphy gently took the bud back, cradled it with the tenderness of a man retrieving his own dignity, and wrote on his wrist under the first note: LESS COACHING, MORE QUIET.

The simulation that afternoon turned the arena into a nighttime compound: catwalks, corrugated alleys, searchlights that moved like eyes. Stella led with mapped rotations and clipped signals. Alex adapted, filling gaps, humor bled dry but reflexes bright.

Ziphy, flagging under the weight of his “help,” tried one last adjustment: he buffed a stretch of concrete twenty feet past checkpoint Bravo with a floor machine, meaning to create the gentlest slip—enough to force Alex to brace against a wall and Stella to catch his forearm. A controlled stumble. A choreographed save.

He over-buffed.

A patrol rounded the corner. Footfalls. A beam swung wide. Stella signaled, and they sprinted the line—with Alex hitting the polished section first, sliding silent as a skater and catching the rail with one hand. He held, took Stella’s momentum across his shoulder and redirected her to the next shadow as if they’d rehearsed it. No stumble. No fall. No touch longer than necessity.

Ziphy watched, slack-jawed, then noticed the patrolman behind them hit the same patch and do a full-body pirouette into a stack of plastic crates. The crash masked Alex and Stella’s movement entirely. Unintentional perfection.

“Okay,” Ziphy whispered to himself. “So sometimes an accident is… actually good.” He let himself have one small nod. Then he knocked himself in the forehead with the handle of the buffer and hissed, “Still not the point.”

They slipped past a patrol, bodies aligning in the wedge between tank and wall. Alex’s hand steadied her ribs for exactly a breath; her anger broke and re-formed, sharper, steadier. Then she pulled away, face hard.

They retrieved the intel, finished the op, but when the simulation faded, the silence between them was colder than ever.

Debrief was brutal.

“Teamwork is everything,” the lead instructor growled. “You two are skilled, but your mistrust will destroy you in the field. Fix it, or you’ll fail.”

Alex clenched his jaw. Stella’s hands curled in her lap. The citrus-ghost of the morning still haunted the edges of her focus. The right-bud echo of a voice-that-wasn’t-his still haunted his.

When the room cleared, he finally turned to her. “You don’t trust me.”

Her eyes met his, unflinching. “Why should I?”

For the first time since the program began, Alex had no answer.

Outside the glass, Ziphy stood very still with a mop he hadn’t used and a checklist he didn’t need. He had tried science, sabotage, coaching, choreography. He had learned nothing he wanted to learn and everything he didn’t. He hadn’t given up—wouldn’t—but the card in his pocket felt heavy with the wrong kind of ink.

He took it out, crossed out his motto, and wrote a new one beneath it with steadier strokes:

IF YOU CAN’T MAKE IT PERFECT, MAKE IT TRUE.

He underlined TRUE. Then, because he was Ziphy, he immediately tripped on his own mop bucket and sent a tidal wave across the corridor that chased him in squeaking shoes to the far door—where he collided, apologized to the door, and kept going.

The arena lights dimmed to maintenance levels. Steel settled. Ozone thinned. Somewhere high above the mats, a citrus note finally faded.

Chapter 24: A World Apart

The towering iron gates part, and a fleet of luxurious cars glides through, their sleek frames reflecting the late afternoon sun. Alex and Stella find themselves ushered into one of these gleaming vehicles, their eyes widening as they take in the lavish interior. The leather exhales a faint cedar note; crystal clinks softly in a chilled armrest as the coastline flashes gold beyond tinted glass.

“Welcome to the heart of high society,” their driver murmurs, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. “Try not to look too starstruck.”

As the car winds through the winding, treelined streets, the candidates catch glimpses of sprawling estates and the occasional celebrity sighting. Alex feels a surge of excitement, his mind racing with the possibilities that lie ahead. Stella, on the other hand, appears more guarded, her brow furrowing slightly as she takes in the opulent surroundings. Lanterns bloom to life on a clifftop party as they pass; music reaches the car in warm, distant thumps. Alex’s knee bounces once, then stills when he notices Stella clocking every camera and exit.

The vehicle ushers to a stop before an imposing mansion, its elegant façade adorned with intricate stonework and towering columns. A team of impeccably dressed attendants greets the candidates, their movements graceful and efficient. Marble steps hold the cool of shade; somewhere inside, a piano scales up and disappears.

“This way, please,” one of them says, gesturing towards the grand entryway. “The image consultants are waiting.”

Alex and Stella exchange a wary glance, but they follow the attendant without hesitation, their competitive spirits ignited by the prospect of the challenges that lie ahead. Their shoulders brush in the doorway; neither of them moves away immediately.

A catering cart squeaks down a service corridor and arrests itself just shy of the threshold. The cart-pusher—too-starched jacket, too-wide smile—freezes when Alex and Stella glance over. Ziphy, protocol liaison (a title he’d just invented for the job), salutes the way people salute after watching one tutorial. A linen-wrapped bundle tumbles from the cart and thuds against the doorframe; when he stoops to grab it, an avalanche of silk pocket squares spills out and fans across the marble like surrender flags. “Don’t mind me,” he chirps to the air. “I’m blending.”

The interior of the mansion is a veritable feast for the senses – ornate chandeliers cast a warm glow over the marble floors and richly upholstered furniture, while the air is tinged with the subtle scent of exotic flowers. A group of image consultants, their expressions simultaneously welcoming and critical, step forward to assess the candidates. Measuring tapes whisper around ribs; a stylist tilts Stella’s chin with a knuckle, hunting angles like weak points.

“Ah, yes, the infamous Heartthrob contenders,” one of them murmurs, her gaze sweeping over Alex and Stella with a discerning eye. “We have our work cut out for us, don’t we, darlings?”

The consultants begin their work in earnest, guiding the candidates through a whirlwind of fittings, grooming sessions, and etiquette lessons. Alex finds himself surprisingly at ease, his natural charisma and adaptability allowing him to navigate the unfamiliar environment with grace. Stella, on the other hand, seems more hesitant, her every movement carefully calculated as she strives to maintain her composure. “Waltz is just physics,” Stella mutters under her breath, counting. When they’re paired for a beat, Alex’s touch at Stella’s shoulder blade is professional, steady—and more grounding than Stella wants to admit.

Behind the screen, Ziphy hovers with a steamer and a bottle of “wrinkle relaxer.” The nozzle misfires, misting Alex’s tux shoulder and—by ricochet—the line of Stella’s collarbone. The relaxer smells faintly of jasmine and oud; Ziphy panics, tries to fan it away with a garment bag, and only succeeds in pressing the note into the cloth. He scribbles on his palm: no more aromas and underlines it thrice.

As the day wears on, the candidates are transformed, their once casual attire replaced by tailored suits and elegant gowns. The image consultants step back, their lips curving into satisfied smiles. A publicist glides past, laughing too close to Alex’s ear; a ribbon of white jasmine and oud lingers on his lapel when she goes.

“Wonderful. You both look absolutely divine,” one of them declares, her gaze lingering on Alex and Stella. “Now, let’s see if you can put on a show worthy of the Heartthrob title.”

The grand dining hall is awash in the soft glow of candlelight, the air thick with the aroma of exquisite cuisine and the murmur of refined conversation. Alex and Stella find themselves seated side by side, their eyes sweeping across the table of distinguished guests. Silver shivers; crystal rings; the table blooms with figs, charred lemon, sea bass glossed with citrus oil.

“Well, Stella, looks like we’re in for a night of highstakes social maneuvering,” Alex murmurs, his lips curving into a mischievous smile.

Stella’s brow arches, her gaze meeting Alex’s with a hint of challenge. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Liam. This is our chance to show them what we’re made of.”

A server approaches with a tiered tray, hands steady, smile fixed. The server is Ziphy. The tray is heavier than promises. At Stella’s shoulder, he pivots to present the top tier—his cuff snags the chair finial and yanks him forward. The tray tilts, a dessert spoon clinks, and Ziphy’s forehead taps the back of Stella’s head with a soft “oh”—barely contact, but enough to nudge her stool an inch toward Alex. She steadies, composed; Ziphy backpedals into a palm and vanishes along the wall, pressing a napkin to a nose that isn’t bleeding.

As the first course is served, the candidates engage in a subtle dance of wit and charm, expertly navigating the complex social dynamics that permeate the gathering. Alex’s natural charisma shines through, his words laced with a disarming charm that captivates the guests. Stella, in turn, demonstrates a keen intellect and a sharp tongue, easily matching her rival’s verbal sparring. Alex compliments a director’s latest doc; Stella drops a single precise statistic that turns the compliment into leverage. The director beams. Score one for her.

The tension between the two candidates is palpable, their bodies angled towards each other, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Yet, beneath the surface, a spark of genuine interest flickers, a recognition of each other’s formidable skills. Stella inhales to speak—and pauses. There it is again: jasmine, smokesweet, not hers, ghosting from Alex’s collar when he turns toward the candlelight.

As the conversation flows, Alex and Stella find themselves drawn into strategic alliances, forging connections with influential figures in the worlds of entertainment, politics, and business. They exchange furtive glances, each silently assessing the value of these new relationships and how they might leverage them to their advantage.

“You know, Stella, I have to hand it to you,” Alex murmurs during a lull in the conversation. “You’re holding your own remarkably well.”

Stella’s lips curve into a subtle smile, her eyes glinting with a hint of triumph. “What can I say, Liam? I’m full of surprises.”

From a sideboard, Ziphy unfurls a minimalist “soft barriers” plan—moveable floral screens that create conversational alcoves. He slides one between Stella and a too-curious mogul; the casters lock, then fail, and the screen glides like a sailing wall across polished parquet, shepherding Stella and Alex closer together as if by architectural fate. Ziphy muscles it back, sweating ceremony.

The two candidates engage in a delicate dance of oneupmanship, each striving to demonstrate their superior charm and social acumen. But beneath the surface, the growing attraction between them simmers, a temptation that threatens to disrupt the careful balance they have struck. When a studio heiress leans over Alex’s shoulder to toast, her bracelet grazes his sleeve—and the same perfume blooms and fades. Stella raises her glass without tasting. Smile flawless. Pulse not.

As the dinner draws to a close, Alex and Stella find themselves lingering, the world around them fading into the background as they grapple with the implications of their burgeoning bond. The future of the Heartthrob competition hangs in the balance, and the lines between rivalry and something more profound have become increasingly blurred. “You okay?” Alex asks, catching the far look. Stella’s answer is a light laugh and a pivot to a departing ambassador; she don’t trust her voice enough to say yes.

As the formal dinner draws to a close, a hush falls over the grand dining hall. The candidates exchange curious glances as an elegantly dressed attendant steps forward, his expression enigmatic.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention,” the attendant announces, his voice carrying a note of authority. “You have all been invited to a very special gathering this evening – a private soirée where the elite of the entertainment, political, and business worlds will be in attendance.”

Alex and Stella feel a surge of anticipation, their competitive spirits ignited by the prospect of rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers of high society. The attendant continues, “This is a unique opportunity to forge valuable connections and demonstrate your worth as a Heartthrob candidate. I trust you will all represent the program with the utmost poise and sophistication.”

With a polite nod, the attendant gestures towards the grand staircase, where a procession of guests has already begun to ascend. Alex and Stella exchange a measured glance, their earlier rivalry momentarily set aside as they recognize the gravity of the situation.

“Well, Stella, looks like it’s time to put on our best faces and mingle with the high and mighty,” Alex murmurs, a hint of dry amusement in his voice.

Stella’s lips curve into a subtle smile. “For once, Liam, I think we’re in complete agreement.”

Chapter 25: The Soirée and the Spark

They join the flow of guests and step into a world of opulence and power. Chandeliers cast a warm glow over the lavishly decorated ballroom, and the air hums with sophisticated conversation and sudden laughter. Camera flashes pop like distant lightning. On cue, Alex laughs at something low and private that Stella says; the cameras catch the angle and make it look like a secret. Maybe it is.

A masked server threads the crowd, silver tray steady. It’s Ziphy—again. He edges near their orbit, plotting a micro-interruption to nudge two vectors into one line. The heel of his polished shoe kisses a dropped olive. Physics votes. The server tips, tray wobbles, and Ziphy pinwheels out onto the balcony corridor with a strangled “enjoy.”

Steeling their nerves, the candidates begin to circulate, their eyes scanning the room for potential targets. Alex, with his natural charisma, easily ingratiates himself with a group of influential entertainment moguls, while Stella expertly navigates a cluster of political heavyweights, her sharp wit and analytical mind earning her admiring glances.

Despite their rivalry, Alex and Stella find themselves working in tandem, their eyes meeting across the crowded room in silent acknowledgment. They exchange information, share insights, and strategize, each recognizing the value of the connections they are forging. At the bar, their hands brush as a napkin with two names changes owners. The touch lands deeper than the intel.

As the evening wears on, the candidates find themselves drawn into a web of intrigue, their every move calculated and their loyalties constantly tested. But beneath the surface, a grudging respect begins to take root, a recognition of each other’s abilities and the necessity of cooperation in this highstakes game. Stella turns from a senator and spots Alex laughing with the studio heiress again—and the perfume is there, soft and treacherous. She tells herself it doesn’t matter. Her chest disagrees.

The pulsing music and the hum of conversation fade into the background as Alex and Stella slip out onto the secluded balcony, the city lights twinkling below. For a moment, the world beyond the mansion’s walls seems to disappear, and they find themselves alone, the weight of their rivalry and the growing attraction between them palpable in the air. Cool night rinses the perfume from the room; out here it smells like stone and citrus.

Alex leans against the ornate railing, his gaze sweeping across the glittering skyline. “Well, Stella, I have to say, you’re holding your own quite admirably in there.”

Stella’s lips curve into a wry smile as she step closer, her shoulder brushing against Alex’s. “I could say the same about you, Liam. You’re quite the charmer when you want to be.”

The tension between them is thick, the unspoken connection simmering beneath the surface. Alex turns to face Stella, his eyes searching the other candidate’s face.

“You know, I never thought I’d say this, but… I’m actually starting to enjoy working with you,” Alex murmurs, his voice low and tinged with vulnerability.

Stella’s brow furrows, her expression guarded. “Don’t get too comfortable, Liam. This is still a competition, and I intend to win.” But the words lack their usual bite, and Alex can’t help but notice the way Stella’s gaze drifts to his lips, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Stella’s fingers hover near his lapel as if touch could confirm what her nose already knows—then retreat.

“I know, I know,” Alex says, his hand reaching out to gently brush against Stella’s. “But maybe, just for tonight, we can put the competition aside and… I don’t know, enjoy each other’s company?”

The touch sends a jolt through Stella; she find herself unable to look away. The city lights cast a soft glow on their features, and in that moment, the walls they’ve so carefully constructed begin to crumble.

“I… I suppose we could,” Stella concedes, her voice barely above a whisper.

The air between them grows thick with tension, the distance shrinking as they’re drawn together by an invisible force. Alex’s heart pounds in his chest; Stella’s breath warms the space between them.

“Stella…” Alex murmurs, eyes searching, pleading for permission.

Stella’s eyes flutter closed, and in that moment, the last vestiges of their rivalry fade away, replaced by a need to surrender to something far more powerful.

From the shadowed doorway, a figure stumbles—a blur of tray and nerves—and clips the planter at Stella’s back. The nudge is feather-light but decisive. Stella tilts forward, lips brushing another’s for the briefest brush—soft, startled, a spark like static. Ziphy’s eyes go dinner-plate wide as gravity claims him; he vanishes backward with a muffled thump and a rain of olives, mortified into silence behind the boxwood. The world holds its breath—

—and Alex steps in, close and certain, catching the moment with a steady palm at Stella’s jaw. The question is in his eyes. The answer is in hers. They kiss—sure this time, deepening, heat threading through the cool night. For a pulsebeat, a thought rings in Stella’s mind—hmm—something about angles, a difference in pressure, timing—but the thought dissolves as Alex’s mouth tilts and the truth of it finds her. They remain kissing. The city falls away.

The moment hangs suspended, charged with unspoken desire, until a distant sound shatters the intimate bubble they’ve created. Alex and Stella reluctantly pull apart, their cheeks flushed with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation.

“We should… we should get back inside,” Stella murmurs, her voice barely steady.

Alex nods, his fingers briefly tracing the outline of Stella’s hand before he withdraws. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He steps back first. The night rushes in like cold water.

As they reenter the ballroom, the pulsing music and the hum of conversation wash over them, but the memory of their shared moment lingers, a tantalizing promise of something more.

It is then that a mysterious figure approaches, their features obscured by the dim lighting. “Ah, there you are,” the stranger purrs, their gaze sweeping over Alex and Stella with a hint of amusement. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The candidates exchange a wary glance, but their curiosity is piqued.

“And you are?” Stella asks, her tone guarded.

The stranger’s lips curve into an enigmatic smile. “Someone who has taken an… interest in your performance. I have a proposition for you, if you’re willing to hear me out.”

Alex and Stella hesitate, their competitive instincts warring with their better judgment. But the lure of a potential strategic advantage is too strong to resist.

“We’re listening,” Alex says, his voice laced with a hint of cautious interest. The stranger’s smile widens. “Excellent. Follow me, if you please.”

They are led through a series of opulent corridors, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the marble floors. Finally, the stranger ushers them into a dimly lit, intimate salon, where a handful of other guests are gathered.

“Welcome to the Heartthrob Trials,” the stranger announces, their gaze sweeping across the room. “Here, you will be tested in the art of seduction and emotional intelligence – skills that are crucial to the role of a Heartthrob.”

Alex and Stella exchange a charged glance, their hearts pounding with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. The competition has taken an unexpected turn, and they find themselves confronted with a challenge that threatens to lay bare their deepest vulnerabilities. Eyes turn. The room smells like old books and sharper games. Stella keeps her gaze forward, but her attention circles back to Alex’s collar like a clue she can’t unsee.

As the trials begin, the candidates are forced to confront their growing attraction, their every move scrutinized and their emotional responses dissected. The tension between them builds, the lines between rivalry and desire blurring with each passing moment. When a proctor pairs Alex for a “microtell” exercise with the studio heiress, Stella’s jaw ticks once. She ace her own round, but her scorecard trembles just enough to register weather.

The air is thick with tension as Alex and Stella emerge from the intimate salon, their expressions a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. The romantic trials have left them shaken, their carefully constructed walls crumbling in the face of their growing attraction.

They walk in silence for a time, the sounds of the party fading into the background as they seek solace in a secluded alcove. Finally, Alex breaks the silence, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

“So, Stella… what now?”

Stella’s brow furrows, her gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the ornate rug beneath her feet. “I… I don’t know, Liam. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Alex reaches out, his hand gently brushing against Stella’s. “Hey, look at me. I know this is… complicated, to say the least. But I can’t stop thinking about what happened back there.”

Stella’s eyes flutter closed, a shudder running through her body at the touch. “I know. I can’t either. But we’re supposed to be rivals, Liam. This competition is everything to us.”

“Is it, though?” Alex murmurs, his voice soft and earnest. “Because right now, all I can think about is you.”

Stella’s eyes snap open, her gaze searching Alex’s face for any sign of deception. “You can’t be serious. We’re risking everything by even entertaining this… this thing between us.”

Alex’s fingers tighten around Stella’s, his expression resolute. “I am serious, Stella. And I know you feel it too. The competition, the rivalry – it all fades away when I’m with you.”

Stella’s walls begin to crumble, the weight of her emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

“But what if we lose? What if we fail?” she whisper, fear threading the words.

Alex’s other hand comes up to cup Stella’s cheek, eyes bright with a new resolve.

“Then we’ll face it together. I’m willing to take that risk, Stella. Are you?”

The seconds stretch, heavy with consequence. Finally, Stella’s shoulders loosen and she lean into Alex’s touch, lips curving into a tremulous smile.

“Yes, Liam. I am.”

She almost asks, Who was she? The words skim the back of her teeth and dissolve. Not yet. She files the perfume away like evidence and kisses him only with her eyes.

The words are barely above a whisper, but they carry the weight of a promise… overshadowed by the possibility of something far more profound.

Behind the screen of the alcove, Ziphy sits on the floor with his tray balanced across his knees, eyes wide and strangely peaceful. He presses his palm over his heart like he’s swearing in at a ceremony no one else can see, then tips backward in a silent, dignified faint that knocks a single olive loose. It rolls, stops at the edge of the rug, and refuses to be a metaphor.

Ziphy grins at the ceiling. Still learning, he thinks. Still here.

And then—something sticky dripped through the ceiling. A slow ooze, black and glistening, seeping through the plaster like the building itself was bleeding molasses. Ziphy sat up, tray clattering.

“What in the heart-approved hazard code is that?” he whispered.

The olive popped once, then sank into the dark goo and vanished with a bloop.

A portal tore open, jagged with light and tar. Cookie Girl stepped through, hands on hips, lollipop wand glowing like a sheriff’s badge.

“Lesson time,” she declared. “Zippy, you’ve been pratfalling around love without learning it. They’ve got the kiss. Now you’ve got the goo.”

Before Alex or Stella could react, the alcove tilted sideways. Carpets, olives, and promises slid into the black rift. Zippy tumbled headfirst, shrieking:

“THIS IS A BAD IDEA BUT I’M OPEN TO IT!”

The world reassembled in tar pits and cave-painted profiles

Chapter 26: Rock Profiles and First Swipes

The kiss lingered, suspended in heat and hesitation. Alex’s thumb brushed Stella’s cheek. She didn’t pull away. For one impossible moment, the competition, the gala, the cameras — all of it dissolved into silence.

And then—

CRASH.

A service cart toppled into the balcony door, champagne flutes exploding across marble. At the center of the wreckage was Zippy Zephyr, arms full of sparklers, a half-inflated helium swan, and what appeared to be a “Romance Enhancement Device” (essentially a karaoke machine duct-taped to a leaf blower).

“Do NOT panic,” Zippy declared, voice already high with panic. “This is an authentic mood amplifier. Science fact!”

The swan popped. The leaf blower ignited a napkin tornado. Cookie Girl appeared in the doorway, hands on hips, jaw smudged with sugar dust.

“Enough,” she said, glaring at all three of them. “Zippy, you need to learn what real love looks like. You two—” she pointed at Alex and Stella, “—are about to learn what happens when fakery meets tar.”

She raised her lollipop wand and sliced a seam into the night air. A glowing rip opened, dripping with black tar and the smell of mammoth jerky. Zippy tripped forward and vanished with a yelp. Alex and Stella followed, clutching each other as the balcony dissolved.

They landed hard in a world of tar, bone, and slapdash dating profiles scratched in ochre on cave walls.

Grog squinted at his reflection in the still waters of the tar pit, adjusting his unruly hair with a primitive bone comb. He needed the perfect cave painting selfie for his dating profile, and by the spirits of his ancestors, he was determined to get it right this time.

“Grog, honey, you’ve been primping for hours,” his mother’s voice echoed from their nearby cave. “The mammoths will have evolved by the time you finish!”

“Just one more try, Mum!” Grog called back, positioning his stone tablet against a nearby boulder. He struck what he hoped was an alluring pose, flexing his muscles and flashing his most winning smile – all three of his teeth on proud display.

With a grunt of effort, Grog flung a glob of ochre paint at the tablet. It splattered across the stone surface, vaguely resembling a lopsided stick figure with an enormous head.

“Ugh!” Grog groaned, tossing the tablet aside. It landed with a splash in the tar pit, joining a growing pile of failed attempts. “Why cave paintings never look like Grog?”

Behind him, Zippy bobbed back to the surface of the tar pit, coughing up sludge and holding the tablet like a drowned phone.

“First mistake, pal,” Zippy spluttered, “never trust front-facing rock cam. Angles are everything!”

He attempted to demonstrate a “smolder” pose, slipped, and sank again with a burble of bubbles.

His mother, Sarah – known throughout the tribe as “Strategic Mum” for her uncanny ability to solve any problem – emerged from their dwelling, shaking her head fondly at her son’s frustration.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, patting his arm. “Maybe it’s time we tried something new. Come inside, I want to show you the latest in dating technology.”

Intrigued, Grog followed his mother into their cozy cave. Sarah rummaged through a pile of stones before producing a flat, smooth tablet with strange markings etched across its surface.

“Behold!” she announced proudly. “RockSwipe!”

From the shadows, dripping tar, Zippy gasped. “Oh my god… prehistoric Tinder. It’s beautiful. It’s authentic. It’s… heavy.” He tried to lift the stone. It flattened his foot. “Ow.”

Grog tilted his head, confusion evident on his cro-magnon features. “Rock… swipe?”

Sarah nodded enthusiastically. “It’s all the rage among the younger cave-dwellers. You create a profile, and then you can see other singles in the area. If you like someone, you swipe their stone to the right. If not, swipe left.”

“But how Grog swipe stone?” he asked, perplexed. “Stone too heavy.”

Sarah chuckled. “It’s just an expression, dear. Here, let me show you how it works.”

Over the next hour, Sarah guided Grog through the basics of prehistoric dating etiquette. She explained the importance of a good profile description (“Me Grog. Like long walks on beach, hitting things with club, and sharing mammoth meat.”) and the proper way to initiate conversation with a potential mate.

“Remember,” Sarah cautioned, “always ask before sharing your mammoth. And for the love of our ancestors, don’t lead with club tricks. We want them impressed by your personality, not running for the hills.”

Zippy, furiously scribbling notes on birch bark, muttered: “Don’t lead with club tricks. Got it. Note to self: also works on Instagram captions.” Then he attempted to pose with a mammoth bone as a selfie prop. It snapped. He yelped.

Grog nodded solemnly, absorbing his mother’s wisdom. As he swiped through the available profiles, his eyes widened at the variety of potential matches. There were cave-women who liked long walks by the tar pits, others who enjoyed a good mammoth hunt, and even a few who listed “inventing the wheel” as a hobby.

But one profile, in particular, caught Grog’s attention. The cave painting depicted a stunningly beautiful woman with flowing hair and a dazzling smile. Her description read: “Me Bella. Local cave-dweller seeking strong, handsome mate for long-term pair bonding and potential offspring.”

“Wow,” Grog breathed, his heart pounding faster than a stampeding herd. “She perfect!”

Zippy squinted at Bella’s cave painting. “Filtered. Definitely filtered. Look at that jawline. Nobody has tar-pit lighting that good.” Then he slipped on the ochre and slammed into Grog’s tablet, carving the accidental word: “LOL.”

As if on cue, Grog’s best friend Blug poked his head into the cave. “Hey, Grog! Want to go practice our spear throwing? I heard there’s a new – what that?” he asked, noticing the RockSwipe tablet.

Grog proudly showed off Bella’s profile. “Look! Grog find perfect match!”

Blug’s brow furrowed as he examined the stone. “I don’t know, Grog. Something seems fishy. Nobody that perfect. Plus, I hear there been scams going around lately. Cave-people losing all their shells to fake profiles.”

But Grog was too enamored to heed his friend’s warning. “Blug just jealous,” he declared, waving off the concerns. “Bella real, and Grog going to prove it!”

With a determined swipe to the right, Grog indicated his interest in Bella’s profile. He spent the rest of the day anxiously checking his tablet, hoping for a response.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the prehistoric landscape, Grog’s persistence was finally rewarded. A loud chiming sound emanated from his stone tablet – the prehistoric equivalent of a notification.

Grog’s hands trembled with excitement as he lifted the heavy tablet. There, freshly carved into the stone surface, was a message that made his heart soar:

“Bella like Grog too! Want to share mammoth by moonlight?”

Grog let out a whoop of joy that echoed through the cave and across the primeval valley. He had done it – he had made his first match on RockSwipe!

As Grog danced around the cave in celebration, his mother and Blug exchanged worried glances. They couldn’t help but wonder if this seemingly perfect match was truly too good to be true.

But for now, nothing could dampen Grog’s spirits. He was riding high on the thrill of prehistoric romance, blissfully unaware of the complications that lay ahead in the complex world of Goo Age dating.

Zippy, coated in tar, dragged himself upright. He pointed dramatically at Grog, then at Alex and Stella (half-visible through the portal’s shimmer).

“See?” he wailed. “This is what happens when you swipe without AUTHENTICITY. It’s all goo, no glue!”

Then the tar pit belched, swallowed him whole again, and left only bubbles.

Chapter 27: The Goo-Dipped Messenger

Grog’s heart skipped a beat as he traced his fingertips over the freshly carved stone tablet. The rough edges of the etched message sent tingles through his calloused hands.

“Bella like Grog too! Want to share mammoth by moonlight?” the tablet proclaimed.

Grog’s chest swelled with pride; the recent shell-polishing, the extra ochre along his jaw, the heroic chin-shadow he’d smudged in—finally paying off.

The RockSwipe messenger—an exceptionally starched and very nervous cave-dweller named Ziphy (Self-Promoted Rock-Triage Liaison)—delivered the note. As he handed the heavy slate to Grog, his polished leather sandal kissed a smooth river stone. Ziphy performed a frantic, silent little dance to stay upright, tray of bundled rock-tablets wobbling like a new calf. He recovered with a strained grimace and a salute that puffed a halo of cave dust.

Balance is key, key, key. Always salute the client, he whispered to himself, then wrote a tiny BAL = key on his palm with charcoal.

Over the next few days, Grog and “Bella” exchanged a flurry of stone messages. Each delivery from Ziphy brought a fresh thrill. Bella’s compliments were smooth as river rock, praising everything from Grog’s “impressive brow ridge” to his “masterful use of ochre in profile paintings.”

“Your cave drawings make my heart pound like a woolly rhino stampede,” one tablet read.

Grog blushed; his cheeks went berry-red.

Strategic Mum (Sarah) noticed the growing stack by the door, and the way Grog sprinted whenever shadows fell across the cave mouth. “Grog, dear,” she said one evening as he furiously chiseled a reply, “doesn’t it strike you as strange that ‘Bella’ hasn’t suggested meeting at the watering hole?”

Ziphy arrived with a new tablet. Attempting a “Silent Entry,” he tried to slide the heavy slate soundlessly onto Grog’s workbench. He misjudged the momentum; the tablet skittered, knocking a jar of ochre onto Grog’s newly painted loincloth.

Ziphy froze, then crumpled to his knees, blotting with a ceremonial napkin. “I can fix—” No I can’t. He scribbled on his palm: Silent Entry = friction check first.

“But Mum, Bella is caring for her sick elderly mammoth,” Grog protested. “She can’t leave its side!”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “And how long has this mammoth been sick?”

“Only about a week,” Grog said, then counted slowly on his fingers. “Or two… three at most.”

Sarah sighed—the Goo Age had invented many things: fast messaging, sophisticated scams. “Grog, honey, I think we need to talk about—”

Grog squinted at the fresh tablet, the one Ziphy had just re-smudged. “Oh no! Bella’s mammoth needs rare purple shells for medicine! I have to help!”

He darted to his shell collection—a shimmering hoard gathered over years from far beaches. Handful after handful clattered into a pouch.

“Grog, wait!” Sarah called, but he was already halfway out, arms bright with treasure. Ziphy, invoking his new “Customer Service Assist,” raced to hold the heavy hide flap open. He succeeded—then, wanting to secure it neatly, tied a clever knot that cinched the entire entryway down on his head. The hide collapsed like a polite avalanche, pinning him to the floor.

A muffled squeak escaped. He added a note to his palm from under the hide: Assist ≠ impede. Learn knot-tying.

Days passed. Grog’s shells dwindled. Bella’s requests grew elaborate.

“The mammoth needs special moss that only grows on the north side of the tallest mountain.”

“Also bright red feathers from the rarest bird to make a healing poultice.”

Each time, Grog traded precious items or emptied another basket. Whispers started at the communal fire. Three separate cave-folk mentioned their own long-distance “Bellas,” their own perpetually dying mammoths.

Blug, Grog’s cynical best friend, finally cornered him by the hearth. “Grog, my rock-headed friend,” he said, clapping a hand on Grog’s shoulder, “have you ever actually met this Bella?”

Grog shifted. “Well, no, but—”

“And the mammoth? Sick this long?” Blug pressed. “I asked around. There are at least three ‘Bellas’ with identical stories.”

For the first time, doubt brushed Grog’s face.

The RockSwipe messenger arrived again. Desperate to make a perfect, non-disruptive delivery, Ziphy unveiled a new, high-tech innovation: two moss-padded stones as primitive skates. He glided through the entrance with surprising grace… then realized he did not, in fact, have brakes. He spun, executed a surprisingly elegant pirouette into the wall, set the tablet down with a gentle clink, and fainted in a dignified heap next to the fire pit.

Grog didn’t notice the collapse, only the message: “The mammoth healers require your entire shell collection for a life-saving ritual.”

Blug groaned, palming his forehead. “Grog, no! Can’t you see—”

But Grog was already sprinting back to his cave to gather the last shells.

Sarah stood in the entrance, arms folded. “Grog,” she said softly, “it’s time we had a serious talk about Bella.”

He stopped, arms full of shimmer. “But Mum, Bella needs me. Her mammoth—”

“Has been ‘sick’ for over a moon,” Sarah said gently. “Isn’t that a bit… unlikely?”

Grog’s brow furrowed. “Maybe it’s a very big mammoth?”

Sarah exhaled and patted the sleeping fur. “Sit. I’m going to explain a word: scam.”

Ziphy, reviving on the floor, raised a tar-smudged finger. “I have a… pamphlet idea.” He fished a shard and began carving a list titled RED FLAGS, tongue between teeth.

Blug burst into the cave with a stack of tablets he’d “borrowed” from RockSwipe HQ. “Grog! You won’t believe this.” He spread them out—dozens of Bellas, identical smiles, identical mammoths, identical pleas, different names scratched into the dirt.

Grog’s jaw slackened. He looked at the tablets, at his thinned-out shells, at his mother’s face. “But… Bella liked my brow ridge.”

Sarah hugged him. “Your brow ridge is top-tier. Real love is more than features and shells.”

Another tablet thumped at the door.

Ziphy—determined to be discreet—attempted a controlled tuck-and-roll. He caught a toe on the sleeping fur, turned a neat somersault, and landed perfectly upright… while the tablet sailed into a pile of fish guts. He retrieved it, stricken. New lesson: Discreet ≠ Gymnastic.

Blug snatched the message. “Of course,” he muttered. “The ‘healers’ urgently require your entire shell collection, with a pre-carved authorization rune. How convenient.”

Grog sank to the fur, shame washing over him. “I’ve been such a fool.”

Sarah sat beside him and rubbed circles between his shoulders. “We’ve all been there. What matters is what you do next.”

Ziphy, cheeks pink, held up his shard. “We could… gate the shells behind a public meet at the watering hole. Witnesses. No couriers. Questions only a real Bella could answer.” He glanced at Sarah, then Blug. “We make a board. We teach the village. Guide, don’t rewrite.”

Blug’s grin cracked through. “Look at him. He’s learning.”

Grog lifted his chin, something steady settling in his eyes. “You’re right, Mum. It’s time to end this scam—not just for me, for everyone.”

Ziphy wrote on his palm in blocky letters: Guide ≠ grand gesture. Watering-hole first. Then, smaller beneath it: Keep trying.

Outside, the tar pits breathed. Inside, a plan began to take shape—messy, stubborn, and sticky with hope.

Chapter 28: Something Fishy in the Tar Pits

Grog slumped against the cool cave wall, his once-gleaming confidence dulled to chalk. The realization that Bella—perfect cave match, moonlight sharer, brow-ridge admirer—had melted away with his shell hoard hit like a mammoth’s trunk.

“Me been big goof,” Grog muttered, tracing a spiral in the dust with a stick.

Blug patted his back carefully, the way you pat a sleeping bear you actually like. “There, there, big guy. We all fall for shiny rock sometimes.”

Strategic Mum (Sarah) stood with arms folded, an expression that was mostly sympathy and a little “we talked about watering-hole first.” “Grog, honey, rocky paths make stronger climbers,” she said. “And we’re climbing together.”

A commotion at the entrance. A young woman with wild hair and paint-smeared cheeks burst in, waving a tablet. “You Grog?” she asked, breathing hard. “Me Maya Zhang. Hear you got scammed by pretty rock lady too?”

Grog straightened. “Me, yes.”

Maya’s energy pulled them forward like a tide. Soon the whole group—Grog, Blug, Sarah—huddled around her tablet as she stabbed at a web of etched lines. “Me track scam patterns. Many moons. Many victims. All trails lead…” She jabbed a pictograph of ripples and a stink spiral. “Tar pits.”

Blug wrinkled his nose. “But it smell like angry soup.”

“Exactly,” Maya said, grinning. “Scammers love places brave people hate. Perfect hideout.”

A gangly figure stumbled in behind her, almost tripping over his own excitement. “You not believe what me discover!” he announced. “Whole scam run by Troll Queen! She live in tar pits, control army of fake pretty rock ladies!”

“Lucas Zhang,” Maya said without looking back. “Cousin. Conspiracy department.”

Strategic Mum cocked an eyebrow. “Troll Queen?”

Lucas held up a leaf with a dramatic charcoal sketch: a shadowy figure on a throne of shells. “Proof!”

Grog squinted. “How you know Queen? Could be King. Or just big greedy cave person.”

Lucas tapped his temple. “Men fall for pretty lady. Queen strategy.”

Blug shrugged. “He got point there.”

Maya clapped once to recenter them. “Queen or no queen, we stop scammers. Who with me?”

Grog’s chest rose. “Me in. No more shells stolen.”

“Us too,” Sarah said, already tying her hair back.

A fourth voice drifted from the supply alcove, where a pair of feet stuck out from under a coil of rope. “And me,” said Ziphy Zephyr, wriggling free and popping up coated in harmless powder. His vest was starched, his smile too wide, his palms already inked with little black notes. “On mission support. Guide, don’t rewrite. Learn, don’t fake.”

Blug squinted. “You again.”

Ziphy saluted, then turned the salute into a wave mid-air, then turned the wave into a stretch as if that’s what he meant. Under his breath he rehearsed, three words, not shells. Say the right three words. He wrote on his palm:

Not “I love shells.”

Try: I love truth. I love help. I love…

He stopped writing before the last word. The last word was heavy. He’d get there.

They set out at dusk. The tar-pit basin breathed heat like a sleeping beast. The air smelled of earth and ancient syrup.

“Ugh,” Blug said, pinching his nose. “Who live in hot soup by choice?”

Maya crouched at the ridge and pointed with two fingers. “There.” In a clearing beyond the largest pool rose a crude structure—bones and hides laced into a long, low hall. The clack of stone on stone, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet.

“Rock profile factory,” Grog whispered.

Ziphy dropped his pack, revealing a clatter of contraptions: a reed whistle, a dye bladder, a corked gourd, three labeled pebbles (A, B, C), and a coil of vine. “Tools,” he breathed. “Low-noise, high-sense.”

Maya tilted her head. “You sure they not explode?”

Ziphy laughed too quickly. “No! They are extremely… stable.” He tapped the gourd. “Tar-safe dye. If they grab shell pouch, this pops, mark hands purple. Evidence.”

Sarah gave him a look that said surprise me in a good way. Ziphy swallowed and nodded. Guide ≠ grand gesture, he wrote on his wrist.

They belly-crawled to a boulder and watched. Cave folk came and went with shells and tablets. At the threshold, a tall cloaked figure—fur, leaves, mask—moved with predatory economy.

Lucas hissed. “Troll Queen!”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Hmm. Familiar gait…”

Before they could parse it, a gust shifted. Heads turned toward their rock. A shout went up.

“Intruders!”

“Scatter!” Blug bellowed, already rolling.

They bolted. Ziphy grabbed his pack and, in his panic, yanked all three labeled pebbles at once. A was supposed to be a decoy clack thrown far to the left. B was a low whistle. C was the dye popper. He managed, impressively, to set off B in his own face, swallow the whistle, and sprint with C tucked under his arm like a baby.

“Left! Left!” Maya shouted, veering along a narrower path where scrub trees knitted overhead.

The clearing erupted behind them. Feet pounded. Someone loosed a slingstone. Ziphy stumbled; the gourd thumped his ribs. He clutched it tighter and ran, breath wheezing around the whistle squeak stuck in his throat so that each exhale produced a pathetic wheee.

“Ziphy, move!” Blug yanked him by the collar as a net snapped down where Ziphy had been a heartbeat earlier.

Grog, bringing up the rear, turned and faced the nearest pursuer, a thick-shouldered courier with a sack. “No more shells!” he roared, surprising himself. He grabbed a branch, swung, and clipped the courier’s knee. The sack burst—stencils spilled out: BELLA, DELLA, NELLA, and a strip labeled authorization rune template.

“Evidence!” Maya crowed, scooping the strip as they dashed past.

They careened around a bend and skidded into a side basin. The ground went from dirt to treacherous. Ziphy’s foot slid. He windmilled, hugged the dye gourd to his chest, and made a choice. “I’ll slow them!” he wheezed.

“Do not be hero,” Sarah warned.

“Not hero—guide,” he squeaked, and flung the gourd low, not at the pursuers but at the ground between them. The bladder burst with a wet thwop and painted a slick purple stripe across the path. The first three chasers hit it, pinwheeled, and fell in a pratfall chorus. Purple handprints. Purple knees.

It worked. It mostly worked. It also painted Ziphy from shin to shoulder as he slipped, sat down hard, and rode the stripe like a child, emitting involuntary whistle-squeaks.

They made it to the scrub and ducked into a narrow gully. The shouts faded. The whistle in Ziphy’s throat finally coughed free and pinged off a rock.

They stared at each other, panting, spattered with tar freckles and purple streaks. Then, very quietly, they started to laugh—the unhinged, relieved kind.

Sarah composed herself first. “Good throw,” she told Ziphy. “Unconventional landing.”

Ziphy flushed, purple handprint on his cheek like war paint. “I… tried small, this time.” He glanced at Grog. “Learning.”

Grog clapped him on the back, leaving a tar palm on purple. “You not give up. Me like that.”

Ziphy’s mouth opened around the three words that wanted out. Not I love shells. Not I love winning. A different thing. He swallowed. “I love…” he tried, then chickened out into “…seeing village get smarter.”

Sarah’s look softened, not all the way, just enough. “That’ll do for today.”

Back at the cave, they washed with sand and water and a lot of grimace. Maya laid out the captured strip and stencils on Sarah’s slate and drew fast, neat lines.

“Look,” she said. “Same hand carves all authorization runes. Lazy loop on B. Long tail on ‘mammoth.’ We trace the hand, we trace the forger.”

Lucas nodded sagely. “And Troll Queen?”

Sarah tapped the gait in her mind. “We’ll confirm next pass. For now, we defang the factory.”

Blug leaned on his club. “How?”

Grog, who had been quiet, lifted his chin. “Me have idea,” he said, the words coming slow but whole. “We make fake rich cave man profile. Lure scammers out. Public watering-hole meet. Witnesses behind bushes. No shells till talk.”

Maya snapped her fingers. “Honey-pot with safety. We choose terrain.”

Ziphy perked up, then deliberately downshifted. “We also post a sign at RockSwipe: how to spot tar-scam, how to report stencils, how to ask three questions only a real person can answer.”

“Which three?” Blug asked.

Sarah stepped beside him and carved on a shard:

1. Name of your favorite water place as child.

2. Friend who can vouch—and who we can meet with you.

3. One thing you won’t do for love.

Maya smiled. “That last one good.”

Ziphy inked his palm again: Ask what they won’t do. He stared at the wet letters. “I love… boundaries,” he said, testing the shape. It felt silly and right.

Lucas unrolled another leaf. “Me also propose decoy shell pouch with purple surprise.”

Ziphy held up his purple forearm. “I can consult.”

“Please do not consult with your whole body again,” Sarah said dryly.

They split tasks. Maya and Lucas drafted the decoy profile: GOROG (definitely not Grog), lover of moonlit mammoth roasts, owner of absurdly large shell hoard, always meets in public.

Blug practiced shadow positions behind the reeds at the watering hole. “Left flank cover. Right flank vine.”

Sarah polished the How to Spot a Tar-Scam slab for posting at RockSwipe: clear lines, sturdy strokes, no shame in the script.

Ziphy hovered, resisting the urge to choreograph everyone’s elbows. He laid out reed whistles (non-swallowable v2), checked knots (assist ≠ impede), set the purple dye beside the plan instead of on it, and wrote one more note on his wrist: Three words = say them true, or don’t.

He watched Grog practice lines for the honey-pot meet. Grog stumbled, tried again, found the cadence of his own voice. It wasn’t fancy. It was solid.

“I love…” Ziphy murmured, almost to the fire. “…showing up.” The flame breathed. He let the words sit.

Cookie Girl’s wand-tip shimmered for a heartbeat in the shadow of the wall, no more than a spark. “Closer,” her voice seemed to say from nowhere. Or maybe everywhere.

They met at dusk at the watering hole. The decoy profile had worked too well; a runner had delivered an urgent tablet: Cousin courier will come for shells. Very private.

“Of course,” Sarah said, expression bland.

Grog stood tall with an empty pouch and an open palm. Ziphy placed himself two paces back, off to the side, guide position, not hero. Blug settled in the reeds with the vine. Maya and Lucas crouched behind the low rocks with the dye bladder v2, which Ziphy had tested on a log (and only a log).

The courier arrived: same build as before, same pouch, same shifty eyes. “Shells,” he said, not bothering with niceties.

“Bella come?” Grog asked, voice even.

“Bella busy,” the courier said. “Mammoth—”

“What mammoth name?” Grog said.

The courier blinked. “Mammoth.”

“What water place you love as child?” Grog asked.

The courier hesitated. “Water… place.”

“What thing you won’t do for love?” Grog asked.

The courier reached for the pouch. Blug’s vine sang through the air. Maya popped the dye at the courier’s wrist. Purple bloomed. Ziphy stepped in—not to tackle, not to grandstand—just to hold space, to place a steadying palm on Grog’s shoulder as Grog said, very clearly, to the watching folks who’d gathered at a distance:

“This not love. This scam. We do meet first. We bring friends. We ask true questions.”

Murmurs rippled. Heads nodded. The courier tried to bolt and tripped on his own purple.

Sarah lifted the Tar-Scam slab and propped it where everyone could see. “No shame,” she said. “Only learning. We report stencils. We meet in public. We keep shells until trust.”

The water stilled. Then someone clapped. Then more.

Grog looked at Ziphy, eyes wet but bright. “Thank you,” he said.

Ziphy smiled, small and real. “I—” He breathed once, twice. “I love… that you chose truth.”

Grog grinned through the ache. “Me too.”

Behind them, the tar pits bubbled, and somewhere beyond, a cloaked figure watched from the tree line, head tilted, gait familiar. The next path would twist. The Troll Queen—if Queen she was—would not like losing hands and runes and routes.

But the village had a slab now, and a plan, and a goo-dipped messenger who finally understood that the right three words aren’t props or tricks. They’re a direction you walk in, side by side.

I love showing up.

I love boundaries.

I love truth.

He’d add one more when he’d earned it.

For now, Ziphy grinned at the purple-streaked mess they’d made together and whispered his newest palm note to the night:

Keep trying.

Chapter 29: Operation Troll Hunt

Grog stood before the newly erected stone board, brow knotted, tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth as he etched the last lines of his fake profile: GOROG—Wealthy Mammoth Merchant. The drawing showed a caveman circled by tusks, furs, and muscles that looked like boulders with veins.

Blug snorted. “You really think Troll Queen fall for that?”

“Of course!” Grog flexed at the rock-man who was already flexing. “Who not want piece of prime mammoth meat?”

Maya Zhang rubbed her temples, half smile, half migraine. “Remember, goal is lure in, not terrify away. Maybe… fewer veins?”

Strategic Mum (Sarah) arrived with an armful of hollow reeds and a practical glint in her eye. “Comms,” she announced. “We whisper into these and the bend in the reeds carries sound to the next station. Cutting-edge Stone Age.”

Lucas Zhang eyed the reeds. “Unless government hide tiny saber-toothed tigers inside to eat our words.”

“Lucas,” Sarah said gently, “please put on the normal hat.” Lucas chose a headband of woven grass. It was not the normal hat, but it was less alarming than the fish-scale crown.

Ziphy Zephyr, freshly scrubbed but still wearing a purple handprint from yesterday like a medal, popped up beside the board with a tray of tools: clay pebbles labeled Ping, Psst, Ploop; a coil of vine; and a neat slate of palm-notes. “Mission support ready,” he said. “Guide, don’t rewrite. Small wins. Friction checks first.” He underlined friction on his palm.

They set the stage.

The “surveillance system” glimmered around the clearing—polished shells and water-slick stones placed to catch reflections from several angles, each linked to a reed station. Blug took the left ridge; Maya the right; Lucas, higher lookout (and far from anything that could be set on fire). Sarah ran ops from the center with a slate and a stick. Ziphy moved where gaps appeared, resisting the urge to choreograph elbows.

Attempt One died in slapstick. Grog, chest full of purpose, strode out to bait the hook and stepped into a vine snare he himself had tied. He flipped into a mud pit, feet first, like a heroic arrow that decided to nap mid-flight.

“Me good,” he said from mud. Mud burped.

Attempt Two ended when Blug, monitoring reflections, saw himself in a very flattering angle and whispered, “Scammer!” The whole team sprang the net on his mirror. Ziphy wrote Confirm target ≠ you and underlined it thrice.

By Attempt Three, even Sarah’s patience thinned to a dry scrape. “We are learning,” she said, which is what leaders say when everyone is falling down in new ways. “But let’s add thinking to doing.”

Maya’s eyes sharpened. “We stop trying to catch fish blind. We map river.” She dragged out flat stones, pebbles, and red ochre, then taught them her stone-age algorithm: pebbles for profiles, ochre for connections, shells for shell transfers. Over days, the chart webbed and breathed—lines thickened where shells moved fastest; nodes pulsed where “Bella/Della/Nella” multiplied.

“Look,” Grog said one evening, surprising himself with the click of it. He tapped three nodes that formed a triangle pointing to a blank space. “All lines end here.”

Sarah leaned in. “That’s the old mammoth bone repository,” she said softly. “Perfect for a large operation: dry, hidden, lots of nooks.”

Lucas clutched an amulet necklace of fermented fish scales. The breeze shifted; the team inhaled and immediately regretted it. “These protect from mind-control rays,” he whispered, eyes wild.

“Those protect from dates,” Blug gagged.

They left at night, bodies smeared with mud, reeds looped in a chain, whistles (non-swallowable v2) at throats. Ziphy double-checked knots (assist ≠ impede), tapped each knot like a blessing, then wrote on his wrist: Guide spot = two steps behind courage.

The repository loomed where the tar-pit basin shouldered the hill—a long, low hall of ribs and hides, lit from within by pitch-torches. The clack of chisel on slate, the rustle of hides, the steady cadence of a forewoman’s orders.

Grog belly-slid to the crack in a tusk door and peered through. “By sacred mammoth grounds,” he breathed when he slid back. “Dozens. Rows and rows. Tablets, stencils, piles of shells.”

Maya’s eyes widened. “Fifty?” Her voice was barely air. “That not scam. That industry.”

At the center stood a tall cloaked figure—leaves and fur, movements efficient as a hawk. The mask hid the face; the stride spoke of ownership.

Lucas hissed, “Troll Queen,” like naming a storm.

Sarah’s gaze narrowed, calculating. Something about that gait… but she filed it. Proof later, safety now.

A puff of wind changed the air. Voices inside paused. Heads turned. The team slipped back like shadows swallowing breath. A slingstone whistled past the place where Ziphy’s shoulder had been a blink before.

They ran.

Ziphy, remembering purple, did not throw dye at his own legs this time. He lined the path edge with a thin smear and dragged a reed over it to fan the prints—trip, don’t drown. The first two pursuers slipped and statuesqued into a tangle. He did not pose triumphantly. He did not swallow the whistle. He just ran and kept the line behind him tidy, like pulling thread through cloth.

Back in their cave, they circled the fire, tar freckles drying into constellations.

“This is bigger than us,” Sarah said. “We warn community, but not with panic—with tools.”

Maya nodded. “We publish the patterns. Teach people to test profiles before shells move.”

Ziphy placed a new slab on the ground: HOW TO SPOT TAR-SCAM (NO SHAME, ONLY LEARNING). He carved clean:

Meet first, public place, bring friend.

Ask three true questions:

1. favorite water place as child,

2. name a friend who will meet with you,

3. one thing you won’t do for love.

Keep shells until trust.

Report stencils & runes.

He set the slab upright and stepped back so it belonged to the village, not to him. Guide, not hero.

They planned the next phase: Operation Troll Hunt—not a single net-throw, but a cascade.

Grog and Blug: bait-and-verify meets at the watering hole on rotation.

Maya and Lucas: map the courier routes from repository to market, marking choke points.

Sarah: teach sessions at RockSwipe—“No Shame Night,” read tablets aloud, spot stencils together.

Ziphy: logistics spine—reeds network, whistle codes, dye v3, knot checks. He wrote on his palm: Elbows down. Eyes up.

“Also,” Maya said, pointing at the repository on the map, “we don’t charge the hall yet. We cut off hands first—the couriers, the forger, the rune carver.”

Blug tapped the authorization rune template they’d snatched yesterday. “Same hand signs them all,” he said. “We catch that hand, Queen lose name-making.”

Lucas, thrilled, held up a slate of his own: Protective Measures (Smell Optional). Sarah gently took the fermented necklace and hung it on a peg—near the door. “For… ventilation,” she said.

They moved.

The next days were not dramatic; they were relentless. The slab went up at RockSwipe. People read it, some scoffed, more lingered. Sarah said “No shame” so many times it became a rhythm people could stand inside.

At the watering hole, Grog played “GOROG” with more conviction and fewer veins. Couriers came, tried the old lines, failed the new questions, went home purple. Word spread: the village had a way now.

Maya and Lucas learned the courier rotations and set mirrored shells at bends. On the second dusk watch, Maya hissed, “There,” and Blug’s vine sang again, gentle and precise; the courier toppled into soft reeds and indignity.

Ziphy stepped in to hold space, not center it—steadying hands, clear whistle codes, Psst pebble for gather, Ping pebble for caution, Ploop pebble (never thrown at feet again) to mark evidence. When a frightened victim started crying mid-meet, he didn’t fix; he fetched water, sat two paces back, and let Sarah do the words. He added to his wrist: I love help ≠ I fix everything.

On the fourth evening, a courier broke and talked. Not all of it—fear is a mouth-stitch—but enough. The forger worked in a side room of the repository with a burn mark on the left forearm. The authorization rune tail curled long because of an old scar that pulled the wrist.

Sarah’s eyes flickered. “I know that scar,” she said quietly. “From the market. She used to carve name-stones for newborns.” A heaviness settled. Community is a circle. Sometimes you find your own in the center of the mess.

“We go careful,” Maya said. “Offer out. Don’t crush if we can turn.”

That night, under a thin moon, they went to the market first, not the hall. Sarah walked up to the stall where the forger once worked and set a newborn name-stone from seasons ago on the table. The woman behind it—hard-eyed, tired—went still. Her left sleeve rode up as she lifted the stone. There it was: the burn, the pull.

“You still have the hand that makes names,” Sarah said, voice level. “We can use it to make truth instead of bait.”

The woman’s jaw trembled. Then tightened. “Troll Queen doesn’t let hands go.”

“Then we cut strings,” Maya said. “Not wrists.”

The forger glanced left and right. “Bring friend,” Sarah added softly. “We don’t do this alone.”

A long beat. Then a nod, almost invisible. “Dawn,” the forger whispered. “Third willow by the shallows.”

The team melted back—no whoops, no whistles, just the hum of a plan finding legs.

Back at Grog’s cave, Ziphy sat by the fire and rubbed at the purple stain ghosting his forearm. He read his palms like scriptures, the ink faded to shadow: I love showing up. I love boundaries. I love truth. He turned his hand over and, slow as breath, wrote a new line:

I love people more than plans.

He looked up. Grog was practicing his calm voice for the next watering-hole meet. Blug was checking a knot with tenderness like it was a small animal. Maya’s eyes were lit by maps only she could see. Sarah sharpened the tip of a reed and the point of her kindness in the same motion. Lucas arranged his amulets at a respectful distance from noses.

Ziphy didn’t grandstand. He didn’t faint. He just smiled, small and real, and whispered to his own chest, “Keep trying.”

Outside, the tar pits bubbled—like a warning, like a clock.

Inside, the village decided to be braver than its fear.

At dawn, a willow would hold a different kind of meeting—the kind where a hand that once forged lies might draw the first honest line out of the Troll Queen’s web.

And when that line pulled taut, Ziphy planned to be exactly two steps behind courage, elbows down, eyes up.

Chapter 30: The Great Cave Dating Revolution

Grog stood atop a large boulder, his voice echoing across the cave community.

“Fellow cave-dwellers! We’ve all been fooled by pretty rock ladies and sick mammoths!”

The crowd murmured, some nodding in agreement, others looking confused.

Strategic Mum (Sarah) stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with determination.

“It’s time we shared our stories and put an end to these scams!” She produced a series of small rocks, each carved with a tale of deception. “These are just a few of the heartbreaking stories I’ve collected. Who else has been tricked?”

Slowly, cave-dwellers began to step forward, sharing their experiences. One had traded his prized spear collection for a non-existent “magic berry juice.” Another had given away her entire stock of fur coats to help a supposed “freezing sabertooth tiger rescue.” As more stories emerged, the community’s anger grew.

Maya Zhang, armed with her stone tablet filled with data, addressed the crowd.

“These scams follow a pattern. We need to educate everyone on the signs to watch out for!” She began sketching out common scam scenarios on a large cave wall, creating a primitive infographic.

Blug, ever the cynic, couldn’t help but smirk.

“Who knew we’d need a safety manual for dating? What’s next, instructions on how to breathe?”

From the edge of the crowd, Ziphy Zephyr piped up with too much enthusiasm:

“I can draft breathing protocols!”

The crowd stared. Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose. Ziphy wrote on his palm: Maybe don’t offer that again.

Ignoring Blug’s quip, Strategic Mum organized the community into groups.

“We’ll create awareness paintings in every corner of our caves. No stone will be left unturned!”

As cave-dwellers dispersed to begin their anti-scam campaign, Lucas Zhang approached Grog with a worried expression.

“The Troll Queen won’t take this lying down. She’s probably plotting her revenge as we speak!”

Lucas’s words proved prophetic. Within days, RockSwipe was inundated with an unprecedented number of new profiles. Cave-dwellers found themselves swiping through an endless parade of suspiciously attractive mates, each more unbelievable than the last.

“I’ve got a match with a sabre-toothed swimsuit model!” one excited cave man announced, only to be met with groans from his friends.

“That’s obviously fake,” Blug retorted. “Everyone knows sabre-tooths can’t swim.”

Ziphy added helpfully: “Unless they have floaties.”

Blug shot him a glare sharp enough to chisel stone.

The dating scene descended into chaos. Genuine profiles were lost in a sea of fakes, and trust between cave-dwellers eroded. Some gave up on RockSwipe entirely, reverting to the old-fashioned method of clubbing potential mates and dragging them back to their caves.

Grog watched the mayhem unfold with a heavy heart.

“We’ve got to do something! At this rate, our entire community will forget how to date!”

Maya, ever the problem-solver, had been working tirelessly on a solution.

“I think I’ve got it!” she exclaimed, holding up a flat stone covered in colorful handprints. “We can use handprints as a primitive verification system. Each genuine profile must include the user’s unique handprint!”

The team quickly implemented Maya’s idea, setting up handprint stations around the community. Cave-dwellers lined up eagerly, pressing their palms into different colored clay mixtures before stamping them onto their profile stones.

Ziphy tried too, but pressed his hand at the wrong angle, leaving a blob that looked like a squashed lizard.

“It’s… unique,” Sarah said diplomatically. Ziphy whispered to himself: I love… real, even if messy.

As the verification system took hold, a sense of order began to return to the dating scene. Fake profiles became easier to spot, lacking the telltale handprint marker. The community started to rally around the idea, with some even turning it into a form of art.

“Check out my profile,” one cave woman boasted, showing off a stone adorned with an intricate pattern of handprints forming a heart shape.

Grog couldn’t help but smile as he watched his fellow cave-dwellers embrace the new system.

“We’re actually doing it,” he said to Strategic Mum. “We’re making dating safer!”

Sarah nodded proudly. “And we’re bringing the community together in the process. The Troll Queen underestimated the power of unity.”

As the day wore on, more and more cave-dwellers came forward to verify their profiles. The mood in the community shifted from one of suspicion to cautious optimism. People began to chat and laugh as they waited in line, sharing dating stories and advice.

Lucas Zhang, never one to miss an opportunity for conspiracy theories, began speculating wildly about the Troll Queen’s next move.

“What if she starts cutting off people’s hands to use their prints?” he whispered dramatically to anyone who would listen.

Blug rolled his eyes. “Right, because a one-handed cave-dweller wouldn’t raise any suspicion at all.”

Ziphy raised his purple-streaked hand from the last dye incident. “She could just borrow mine. I’ve got extras.”

Silence. He scratched it out on his palm: Don’t joke about hands.

As night fell, Grog gathered his team to assess their progress.

“We’ve made great strides,” he said, “but we can’t let our guard down. The Troll Queen is still out there, and she’s not going to give up easily.”

Maya nodded in agreement. “We need to keep improving our systems. Maybe we can add voice recordings or unique cave paintings as additional verification methods.”

Strategic Mum smiled at the group’s enthusiasm.

“One step at a time. For now, let’s celebrate our victory. We’ve brought honesty back to cave dating!”

As the team dispersed, Grog lingered behind, staring at the night sky. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in what they had accomplished. From a naive victim of a scam, he had become part of something much bigger – a movement to protect his community and revolutionize the way they connected with each other.

Ziphy lingered too, doodling faint words on his palm by firelight.

I love showing up. I love truth. I love… still learning. He grinned, ink smudged, but for once didn’t faint.

Little did Grog know, this was just the beginning. The real test of their new system – and a final confrontation with the Troll Queen – was yet to come. But for now, in the flickering light of the cave fires, there was hope. Hope for genuine connections, for trust restored, and for a future where love could flourish without fear of deception.

As Grog made his way back to his cave, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of what future generations might think of their handprint verification system. Would they look back and laugh at the primitive methods, or would they recognize the timeless struggle for authenticity in the search for love? Only time would tell. But for now, the Great Cave Dating Revolution had begun, and there was no turning back.

Chapter 31: Love in the Time of Goo

The grand, gilded gates part to reveal a sprawling estate, its elegant facade glimmering under the fading daylight. As Alex and Stella’s car pulls up the winding driveway, they can’t help but exchange a wary glance, the tension palpable between them.

Up the hill, the house wears twilight like a crown; strings of light float over hedges cut into impossible geometry. Somewhere a quartet tunes, and laughter ripples like cover fire.

The driver turns in his seat, his eyes gleaming with a hint of amusement. “Welcome to the heart of the Heartthrob trials, my friends. I trust you’re both prepared for what’s to come.”

His gaze lingers a beat too long on Stella, as if taking a preliminary read of her tells. Alex notices.

The candidates nod, their expressions schooled into masks of determined composure, but their minds are racing with the implications of this latest challenge.

Alex rolls tension from his shoulders; Stella counts doors, cameras, exits.

As they step out of the car, a team of impeccably dressed attendants ushers them towards the mansion’s ornate entryway. The air is thick with the scent of exotic flowers and the faint hum of orchestral music, creating an atmosphere of sophistication and refined elegance.

Orange blossom, polished stone, the distant bite of gin. Alex’s palm grazes Stella’s lower back to guide her through the crowd; she doesn’t shake him off, but she does step just out of reach.

In the grand foyer, a group of distinguished individuals await the candidates, their gazes sweeping over Alex and Stella with a mixture of appraisal and curiosity. A tall, slender woman steps forward, her lips curving into an enigmatic smile.

Beside her stands a man in slateblack—late thirties, scar at the brow, smile like a dare. He clocks Alex and Stella with a soldier’s precision and a showman’s ease.

“Ah, the infamous Heartthrob contenders,” she murmurs, her voice rich and velvety. “I’m so pleased you could join us this evening.”

The man inclines his head. “Captain Rafe Calder,” he adds, voice smooth gravel. “Field evaluation.” His eyes flick to Stella, appreciative, unapologetic.

She gestures towards the ornate double doors that lead deeper into the estate. “Tonight, you will be put to the test in a series of romantic trials, designed to push the boundaries of your emotional intelligence and seduction skills. These are the qualities that are essential to the role of a true Heartthrob.”

Rafe’s mouth edges toward a smile. “We’ll assess connection under pressure. Some of it staged, some of it… not.” Alex doesn’t like the way he says not.

Alex and Stella exchange a charged glance, their competitive spirits ignited by the challenge. They know that the stakes have never been higher, and that their burgeoning attraction could jeopardize their chances of success.

Stella drags in a breath that smells like tuberose and waxed floors; Alex catches himself wanting to steady her again.

“You will be divided into pairs and given specific scenarios to navigate,” the woman continues, her gaze sweeping across the assembled candidates. “Failure to perform to our exacting standards will have… consequences.”

Rafe: “Fake it. Break it. Or take it. We’ll see which you are.” His eyes skim Stella one beat longer than protocol. Alex goes still.

The unspoken threat hangs in the air, and the candidates can feel the weight of their ambition and desire for the Heartthrob title pressing down upon them.

Stella keeps her chin high, but her knuckles pale where she holds the clutch.

As the woman turns and leads them through the grand doors, Alex reaches out, his fingers brushing against Stella’s. “Ready, Stella?” he murmur, his voice laced with a hint of both trepidation and anticipation.

Her fingers catch his for a heartbeat—then release.

Stella’s jaw tightens, but she don’t pull away. “As I’ll ever be, Liam,” she reply, her eyes flashing with a determined spark. The die has been cast, and the candidates find themselves plunged into the high-stakes world of the Heartthrob trials, their personal baggage and growing attraction poised to test the limits of their skill and resolve.

Rafe falls in step beside them, close enough that Stella can feel his heat. “Keep up,” he says mildly—to Alex.

The grand ballroom is a dazzling display of opulence, the air alive with the sounds of laughter and the gentle sway of music. Alex and Stella find themselves swept up in the flow of elegantly costumed guests, their own elaborate masks obscuring their features.

Gold leaf glints from cornices; the floor moves like water. Camera flashes bloom and die. The room smells of champagne and opportunity.

“Well, Stella, shall we see who we can charm tonight?” Alex murmurs, his voice low and laced with a hint of mischief.

Rafe, passing, hooks an arm lightly at Stella’s elbow to pivot her toward a senator. “With me,” he says, smiling like sin. Alex’s jaw tightens.

Stella’s brow arches, her gaze sweeping across the room. “I suppose we have no choice but to play along. Just remember, Liam, this is still a competition.”

She allows Rafe to lead for three measured steps, then sets her own pace—subtle, unmistakable. He notices. Alex notices that he notices.

The candidates weave through the throng of guests, their movements fluid and graceful as they navigate the intricate social landscape. Alex engages a group of influential entertainment moguls, his words dripping with charm and his eyes sparkling with calculated intent. Stella, on the other hand, finds herself drawn into a conversation with a cluster of political heavyweights, her sharp wit and analytical mind earning her admiring glances.

Rafe stands close enough behind Stella that his breath almost touches her ear when he supplies a name, a vote count, a soft laugh designed to read as intimacy across the room. Alex clocks the angle from twenty feet away; from that distance, it looks like flirting. Up close, it is flirting.

Despite their rivalry, Alex and Stella find themselves sharing information, their eyes meeting across the crowded room in silent acknowledgment. They strategize, each recognizing the value of the connections they are forging, even as they compete to outmaneuver one another.

On a passby, Alex brushes Stella’s hand with a folded napkin—two names. Rafe intercepts the gesture with a smile. “Teamwork,” he says to Alex, “isn’t a secret handshake.”

As the night wears on, the candidates find themselves drawn into a web of intrigue, their every move scrutinized by the watchful eyes of the event organizers. The air crackles with tension, and the lines between seduction and strategy blur.

Rafe’s hand at Stella’s back becomes a metronome—light pressure to steer, then lift, then release—never inappropriate, always suggestive. It reads on camera. It reads on Alex.

In a secluded alcove, Alex and Stella find themselves face to face, their masks momentarily discarded. The intensity of their gaze is palpable, the unspoken desire between them simmering just beneath the surface.

“You know, Stella, you’re quite the formidable opponent,” Alex murmurs, his fingers ghosting along the curve of Stella’s mask.

His thumb stills where the silk ties meet skin; her pulse jumps against it.

Stella’s breath catches in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. “And you, Liam, are full of surprises.”

From the ballroom: a laugh like a bell—white jasmine and oud. Stella’s eyes flick to Alex’s collarbone. The scent clings faint and stubborn. Not hers. Not forgotten.

The candidates lean in, the distance between them shrinking, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the world fades away—

—when suddenly the velvet curtain behind them rustles. A tray clatters.

Ziphy bursts in, wearing a server’s jacket two sizes too big, arms windmilling as he tries to balance a mountain of champagne flutes. “Don’t mind me—just performing a routine vulnerability drill—”

The entire pyramid of glasses topples in slow motion. Alex jerks back; Stella barely manages not to laugh. One flute ricochets into a planter, spraying fizz. Ziphy lands flat on his back, blinking at the ceiling.

“New note to self,” he groans, raising a finger. “Romance alcoves: not structurally compatible with stunt service entrances.”

He faints with operatic dignity. An attendant drags him out by the ankles.

The moment between Alex and Stella is shattered, masks tugged hastily back into place.

Rafe passes the archway with a half-smile tucked in one corner. “Timing,” he says, as if offering a neutral note, and then he is gone.

As they rejoin the throng of guests, the rivalry between Alex and Stella has taken on a new layer of complexity, their personal desires and the demands of the competition colliding in a captivating dance.

Alex’s hand brushes Stella’s—apology or promise, even he isn’t sure. She doesn’t take it; she doesn’t avoid it either.

The lavish ballroom fades into the background as Alex and Stella are ushered into a secluded, dimly lit salon. The air is thick with anticipation, and the candidates can feel their hearts pounding in their chests.

Velvet drinks the sound of their steps. A fireplace ticks. Decanters line up like trophies.

A team of discreet observers takes their seats, their gazes fixed upon the two rivals. Alex and Stella exchange a wary glance, the weight of their personal baggage heavy upon their shoulders.

Rafe sits with the panel now, posture politely bored, eyes too alert.

“Welcome to the next phase of the Heartthrob trials,” a smooth, velvety voice announces. “Here, you will be tested in the art of emotional intelligence and vulnerability.”

Rafe’s pen taps once, twice. He looks at Alex when the word vulnerability lands.

Alex’s brow furrows, his fingers drumming against the ornate armrest of his chair. “Vulnerability? What exactly do you have in mind?”

The voice chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down Stella’s spine. “You will each be tasked with engaging in a series of intimate conversations, where you will be required to delve into your personal histories and uncover your deepest fears and insecurities.”

Stella’s jaw tightens, her gaze fixed on the floor. “And what happens if we refuse?”

“Refusal is not an option,” the voice replies, its tone laced with a hint of warning. “Failure to comply will have… consequences.”

Rafe, mild: “Sometimes consequences look like… reassignment.” His glance flicks between them like a match.

The unspoken threat hangs in the air, and Alex and Stella exchange a resigned glance. They know that they have no choice but to lay bare their vulnerabilities, even if it means exposing themselves to their rival.

Alex’s knee bumps Stella’s beneath the table. She doesn’t move it.

As the trials begin, the candidates find themselves stripped of their carefully constructed masks, their defenses crumbling under the weight of their personal histories. Alex speaks of the toxic relationship that left him emotionally scarred, while Stella reluctantly recounts the betrayal that shattered her trust in others.

When Stella’s voice frays, Rafe leans forward just enough to be seen, not heard, and the panel notes her microhesitation. Alex sees it and feels something raw twist behind his ribs.

The more they reveal, the more the walls between them begin to crumble. The growing understanding and connection that blossoms between Alex and Stella threatens to jeopardize their chances of success, their ambition and desire for the Heartthrob title suddenly seeming like a distant concern.

Rafe’s pen stops tapping. He studies the way Alex looks at Stella. The corner of his mouth lifts: found it.

In the aftermath of the trials, the candidates find themselves shaken, their eyes meeting in a silent acknowledgment of the profound impact of their shared experiences. The competition has taken an unexpected turn, and the future has become increasingly uncertain.

Stella rubs the heel of a hand against her sternum like she can smooth the ache flat. Alex almost reaches for her, stops when he hears Rafe say their names to a coordinator like a warning wrapped in silk.

Chapter 32: The Dance and the Denial

The soft, sultry music fills the air as Alex and Stella step onto the dimly lit dance floor, their eyes locked in a silent challenge. The panel of experts observes from the shadows, their gazes keen and discerning.

Floor wax, smoke, citrus. Alex’s fingers are warm; Stella’s are cool and steady until they aren’t.

Alex extends his hand, his lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Shall we, Stella?”

Stella’s fingers tremble as they slide into Alex’s palm, her body tensing with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. “Let’s get this over with, Liam.”

As the music swells, the candidates begin to move, their bodies flowing together in a captivating display of sensuality and grace. Alex’s hand rests possessively on the small of Stella’s back, guiding her through the intricate steps with a practiced ease. Stella, in turn, matches Alex’s movements, her hips swaying in perfect sync as she navigate the delicate balance between seduction and strategy.

From the sidelines, Rafe says something to an evaluator and then steps onto the floor, taking Stella’s free hand for a “switch-partner under pressure” drill. He turns her with a palm at her hip, exact pressure, exact heat, gaze locked to hers like she’s the only variable worth solving. “Breathe,” he murmurs—just loud enough for Alex to hear.

The tension between them is palpable, their gazes locked in an unbreakable hold. Alex’s fingers trace the curve of Stella’s neck, eliciting a shiver that runs through her body. Stella leans in, her lips hovering dangerously close to Alex’s, her breath hot against the other candidate’s skin.

Rafe reclaims Stella for one last eight-count; his laugh near her ear is low, coaxing. “Loosen your frame,” he tells her, hand sliding fractionally lower. The panel writes: increased responsiveness. Alex’s jaw goes granite.

The world around them fades away, and for a moment, it’s as if they’re the only two people in the room. The underlying passion between them becomes increasingly difficult to ignore, their rivalry and attraction colliding in a captivating display that leaves the observing experts enthralled.

When Stella spins back to Alex, the relief in her exhale betrays more than she intends. He catches her, steadies, doesn’t comment. The music draws a scarlet line through the air.

Just then, a waiter staggers onto the floor—Ziphy, wearing a tray strapped to his chest like armor, desperately trying to execute a “Silent Service Entry” drill. He pirouettes too close to the dancers, tray tilts, glasses cascade. A dozen champagne flutes rain down around Alex and Stella like crystal hail.

Ziphy hits the parquet with a dramatic thump, limbs spread like an X. “Note to self,” he wheezes. “Do not attempt tray-balancing choreography until after mastering… actual choreography.”

The panel murmurs—half amused, half scandalized. Alex tightens his hold on Stella, turning the stumble into a dramatic dip. The crowd gasps, applause bursts. From their vantage point, it looks intentional. Ziphy lifts a hand weakly from the floor. “You’re welcome.”

As the music reaches its crescendo, Alex and Stella find themselves in that very dip, their bodies pressed together, heartbeats racing in sync. The moment hangs suspended, charged with a raw, primal energy that threatens to consume them both.

Reluctantly, they pull apart, their cheeks flushed and their eyes shining with a newfound intensity. The experts murmur their approval, their gazes filled with a mixture of admiration and curiosity.

Rafe’s clap is soft, sardonic. “Convincing,” he says, as if he isn’t the one who turned the screws.

Alex and Stella exchange a weighted glance, the implications of their performance weighing heavily upon them. The competition has taken an unexpected turn, and the lines between rivalry and desire have become increasingly blurred.

Stella almost says, Who was she?—that perfume— then swallows it like a pill.

The music and the hum of conversation fade into the background as Alex and Stella slip away, their footsteps echoing against the ornate marble floors. They find themselves in a secluded alcove, the weight of their experiences and the growing intensity of their connection palpable in the air.

Alex checks the corridor; empty. Stella’s hands find the seam of the wall like it can hold her up.

Alex leans against the wall, his gaze sweeping over Stella’s face. “Well, Stella, that was… something.”

Stella’s brow furrows, her arms folded across her chest in a defensive posture. “I don’t even know what to say, Liam. The way we just… lost ourselves out there, it was—”

“Intoxicating?” Alex interjects, his voice low and tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

Stella nods, her eyes searching Alex’s face. “Yes. Intoxicating. And dangerous.”

Her gaze flickers to his collar again—jasmine, smokesweet, stubborn. The question claws at her tongue. She bites it back until it tastes like iron.

The silence stretches on, the weight of their unspoken feelings hanging between them. Alex reaches out, his fingers gently brushing against Stella’s arm.

“I know this is… complicated. Hell, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it myself. But I can’t stop thinking about you, Stella.”

Stella’s breath catches in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. “Liam, we can’t… we’re supposed to be rivals. This competition is everything to us.”

“Is it, though?” Alex murmurs, his gaze unwavering. “Because right now, all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you.”

The words hang in the air, charged with a raw, primal energy. Stella’s defenses crumble, and she find herself leaning into Alex’s touch, her eyes fluttering closed.

“We’re risking everything,” she whisper, her voice laced with a hint of fear. Alex’s fingers trace the outline of Stella’s jaw, his touch featherlight. “Maybe. But isn’t it worth it?”

The candidates are torn, their ambition and desire for the Heartthrob title warring with the growing intensity of their connection. They know that the decision they make now will shape the course of the competition and their own personal journeys.

Slowly, Stella’s hand comes up to cover Alex’s, her lips curving into a tremulous smile. “Yes, Liam. It is.”

From the ceiling above, a muffled voice interrupts: “Or… is it?”

They both look up. Ziphy is wedged in the chandelier, legs dangling, a feather-duster strapped to his belt. “Testing lighting rig for… romantic ambiance,” he explains, before the chain gives a worrying creak. The chandelier drops six inches, crystals ringing like alarm bells.

Alex hauls Stella out of the way just in time as the chandelier swings. Ziphy lands in a heap, dazed but still clutching his notebook. “New… new note,” he croaks. “Romance scenes require… non-lethal lighting.”

Alex and Stella’s moment is ruined, but the nearness lingers like static.

Footsteps approach. Rafe’s reflection briefly skims a gilt mirror at the corner—then vanishes. He leaves them the illusion of privacy and takes the report instead.

The words between them are barely above a whisper, but they carry the weight of a promise, a commitment to forge a path that transcends the boundaries of their rivalry. In that moment, the future of the Heartthrob competition becomes a distant concern, overshadowed by the possibility of something far more profound.

Alex exhales, foreheads nearly touching. Stella lets herself rest in that nearness for one dangerous beat.

The grand ballroom is a blur of activity as the candidates regroup, their expressions a mix of anticipation and trepidation. Alex and Stella find themselves pulled aside by one of the event organizers, their faces etched with a grave seriousness.

Rafe stands with the organizer now, posture easy, eyes sharp.

“The next phase of the Heartthrob program will be your most challenging yet,” the organizer announces, their voice carrying a note of authority. “You will be tasked with executing a high-stakes mission, where you will be required to put your newly honed skills to the test in a real-world scenario.”

Alex and Stella exchange a charged glance, the weight of their personal feelings and the fallout from the romantic trials heavy upon their shoulders.

Rafe adds, pleasant as a blade: “Close-quarters. Microcommunication. Zero margin.” His look to Alex says: keep your head. His look to Stella says: you’re very interesting when you’re off-balance.

“What exactly does this mission entail?” Stella asks, her brow furrowed with concern.

The organizer’s lips curve into a thin smile. “That, my dear, is for you to discover. What I can tell you is that your ability to work together, to trust one another, will be paramount to your success.”

The unspoken implication hangs in the air, and Alex feels a familiar pang of apprehension. He know that the personal connection he’ve forged with Stella, the very thing that has become a source of both solace and distraction, could now jeopardize his chances of success.

At Stella’s shoulder, Rafe leans in just enough to scent her hair. “Focus,” he murmurs, soft and intimate, and steps away before Alex can swallow the flash of heat that surges up his throat.

As the organizer departs, leaving the candidates to prepare, Alex turns to Stella, his eyes searching the other’s face.

“Stella, we need to talk. About… us.”

Stella’s expression hardens, her gaze shifting away. “There is no ‘us’, Liam. Not anymore. Not when the stakes are this high.”

She hears how flat it sounds and keeps it anyway. The jasmine at his collar is a tiny, treacherous flame.

“But—” Alex begins, only to be cut off by Stella’s sharp retort.

“No, Liam. We made a choice, and now we have to live with the consequences. The competition comes first.”

The finality in Stella’s voice is like a punch to the gut, and Alex feels his heart sink. He know that his personal feelings have become a liability, a weakness that could jeopardize his chances of winning the Heartthrob title. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Alex nods, his expression resolute. “Understood. Then let’s do this, Stella. For the competition.”

The candidates turn and stride towards the mission briefing, their shoulders squared and their minds focused on the task at hand. But the lingering echo of their shared connection haunts them, a reminder of the sacrifices they may be forced to make.

Behind them, Rafe’s voice to an aide is silk-smooth: “Schedule the CQC stress evaluation. Same pairing. Double observers.” He watches the two of them disappear through the doors and smiles like a fuse catching flame.

Ziphy, still brushing chandelier dust from his jacket, scribbles in his notebook with a trembling hand: Next trial… may go nuclear. Prepare emergency boom protocol.

And so, even as passion smolders and strategy sharpens, chaos stirs at the edges—ready to explode.

Chapter 33: The Gauntlet

The grand ballroom of the ACID estate is a blur of activity as the Heartthrob competition candidates regroup, their expressions a mix of anticipation and trepidation. Alex and Stella find themselves pulled aside by one of the event organizers, their face etched with a grave seriousness.

A second figure falls in beside the organizer: Captain Rafe Calder, slateblack suit, smile like a dare. He nods once at Alex, twice at Stella—just enough to be felt.

From behind a floral screen, a server in a too-crisp jacket attempts an “invisible pivot” with a tray of comms beads and spare earpieces. It’s Ziphy. He salutes the wrong direction, realizes, then turns his salute into a flourish that knocks a single flute to the floor. Crystal sings. He whispers into his cuff, “Emergency Boom Protocol remains theoretical. Note to self: keep theoretical theoretical.”

“The next phase of the Heartthrob program will be your most challenging yet,” the organizer announces, their voice carrying a note of authority. “You will be tasked with executing a highstakes mission, where you will be required to put your newly honed skills to the test in a realworld scenario.”

Rafe adds, mild as smoke: “Close-quarters focus. We’ll be… observing.”

Ziphy wheels a linen-draped cart a little too close, trying to look like furniture. Under the linen: three labeled cylinders (AURA, BAIT, BOOM?). He carefully flips the BOOM label face-down and writes in tiny letters: not this one.

Alex and Stella exchange a charged glance, the weight of their personal feelings and the fallout from the romantic trials heavy upon their shoulders.

“What exactly does this mission entail?” Stella asks, her brow furrowed with concern.

The organizer’s lips curve into a thin smile. “That, my dear, is for you to discover. What I can tell you is that your ability to work together, to trust one another, will be paramount to your success.”

Rafe’s gaze lingers on Stella like a calibration. “Trust,” he repeats, almost gently.

Ziphy writes on his palm: Three words ≠ big boom. Try small truth. He underlines small three times.

The unspoken implication hangs in the air, and Alex feels a familiar pang of apprehension. He know that the personal connection they’ve forged with Stella, the very thing that has become a source of both solace and distraction, could now jeopardize his chances of success.

From somewhere close: the faintest ribbon of white jasmine and oud—the gala’s socialites wearing it like a uniform. Alex notices it thread the air and glances at Stella’s shoulder as if scent itself could be a tell.

As the organizer departs, leaving the candidates to prepare, Alex turns to Stella, his eyes searching the other’s face.

“Stella, we need to talk. About… us.”

Stella’s expression hardens, her gaze shifting away. “There is no ‘us’, Liam. Not anymore. Not when the stakes are this high.”

“But” Alex begins, only to be cut off by Stella’s sharp retort.

“No, Liam. We made a choice, and now we have to live with the consequences. The competition comes first.”

Up in the chandeliers, a sugared shimmer blinks—like starlight trapped in crystal. Nobody clocked it but Ziphy, who squints up and whispers, “Is that… sprinkles?”

The finality in Stella’s voice is like a punch to the gut, and Alex feels his heart sink. He know that his personal feelings have become a liability, a weakness that could jeopardize his chances of winning the Heartthrob title.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Alex nods, his expression resolute. “Understood. Then let’s do this, Stella. For the competition.”

Rafe’s voice drifts past as he speaks to a tech: “Run the intimacy variants. Increase observer density.” The words are casual. The timing is not.

The candidates turn and stride towards the mission briefing, their shoulders squared and their minds focused on the task at hand. But the lingering echo of their shared connection haunts them, a reminder of the sacrifices they may be forced to make.

They don lapel comms. Rafe’s channel blinks green.

From a shadowed service door, two black cases glide in on silent casters, escorted by ACID security. The stenciled codename on the foam: BLADE. Inside: palm-sized micro-drones with petal wings. Rafe signs off with a thumbprint. The petals flex like they can smell fear.

The candidates are ushered into a private briefing room, the air thick with tension. Alex and Stella take their seats, their shoulders squared and their expressions guarded, as the lead organizer steps to the front of the room.

Rafe leans against the back wall, reading them like a range card.

“The mission you will face will test the very limits of your skills and your ability to work as a team,” the organizer announces, their gaze sweeping across the assembled candidates. “You will be divided into pairs, each tasked with a specific objective that will require seamless coordination and trust.”

Ziphy edges in late with a clipboard and a tray of decoy name placards. He swaps two (by accident) and then swaps them back (on purpose), managing to look guilty both times.

Alex feels his heart sink as the organizer begins to call out the team assignments. To his dismay, Stella is paired with a formidable duo known for their ruthless tactics and unwavering ambition. The two rivals exchange a wary glance, the weight of their personal connection hanging between them.

Rafe clears his throat, corrects the sheet with a pen stroke. The room waits on his nod.

“Liam Ashford and Stella Knight,” the organizer calls out, their lips curving into a knowing smile. “You will be working together on this mission.”

Ziphy pumps a silent fist—then realizes Rafe saw, and converts it into a yawn.

Alex and Stella both tense, their eyes locking in a silent challenge. The thought of being forced to collaborate, of having to put aside their growing attraction and rivalry, is a bitter pill to swallow.

As the briefing continues, the details of the mission unfold – a highstakes infiltration of a secured gala, where they must gather intelligence and secure a valuable asset without blowing their cover. The stakes have never been higher, and the candidates know that failure is not an option.

Rafe: “Your asset is codenamed BARCAROLLE. Confirmed onsite. Close-quarters recovery.” His gaze flicks to Alex. “Don’t let proximity become compromise.”

Ziphy bites his knuckle and writes on his palm: I love… restraint. Then, smaller: work in progress.

Reluctantly, Alex and Stella turn to face each other, their expressions guarded.

“Looks like we don’t have a choice, Stella,” Alex murmurs, his voice low and laced with a hint of resignation.

Stella’s jaw tightens, her gaze unwavering. “No, we don’t. But make no mistake, Liam – this is still a competition. We put our personal feelings aside and get the job done. Understood?”

Alex nods, his fingers drumming against the table as he consider the implications. “Understood. Let’s do this.”

With a shared nod, the rivals turn their attention back to the briefing, their minds focused on the task at hand, even as the echoes of their connection linger in the air. In Alex’s ear, Rafe’s voice drops half a register: “Eyes on the mission, Ashford.” It comes out sounding like a dare. Ziphy whispers into a private channel that definitely isn’t his: “Activating… Plan Macaron. Minimal confetti. Zero explosions.” A tech hisses back: “Who are you?” Ziphy disconnects and writes use fewer channels.

The final words of the briefing were swallowed by the sudden, silent urgency of the extraction. Their professional facades were now their only armor as they were rushed out of the estate and toward the awaiting vehicles, the memory of their bitter argument and Rafe’s insidious gaze hardening their resolve. The city, vast and bright, promised a distraction from the battlefield of the heart.

Chapter 34: The Asset and the Aftermath

The teams are swiftly transported to a bustling metropolitan city, the towering skyscrapers and neonlit streets creating a backdrop of vibrant energy. Alex and Stella find themselves ushered into a sleek, black sedan, their eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Streetlights smear like watercolor; a string trio leaks from the venue’s courtyard. Security patterns ripple in the reflection of the glass. “Remember, your objective is to infiltrate the highsecurity gala hosted by the Syndicate and gather as much intelligence as possible,” the organizer’s voice crackles through their earpieces. “Securing the asset is of the utmost importance, but you must maintain your cover at all costs.”

Rafe cuts onto the line: “Final note. If extraction window narrows, BARCAROLLE will accept escort only from ‘primary’—that’s Knight.” The word lands like a thrown knife. Alex hears it, swallows it.

Behind their sedan, a catering van bumps a curb and disgorges a pyramid of pastry boxes. Ziphy emerges from the driver’s side, sheepish, clutching a badge that reads Event Atmosphere Associate. He lifts a lid: inside, not pastries—little ceramic “cookies” with wickless sparkles: decoy flash-charms Cookie Girl once taught him to prime. He mutters, “Only if necessary,” and tucks them beneath a linen.

Alex and Stella exchange a weighted glance, the gravity of the mission weighing heavily upon them. They know that their ability to work together, to put aside their personal feelings, will be the key to their success. As the car pulls up to the towering, illuminated facade of the gala venue, the candidates straighten their formal attire, their expressions schooled into masks of polished sophistication. With a deep breath, they step out into the bustling throng of elegantly dressed guests, their every move scrutinized by the watchful eyes of the security detail.

The air tastes like champagne and risk. A bloom of jasmine brushes Alex’s collarbone as a guest passes; Stella notices, looks away too fast.

Overhead, the chandeliers shed a brief, impossible glitter—sugar stardust. A small figure in the rigging licks a lollipop wand and makes a tiny circle in the air. Cookie Girl is here—half in, half out of wherever the tar-portal lives, eyes bright, trouble sweeter than the music. Only Ziphy sees her and nearly faints. She taps her wrist and mouths: Not yet.

The opulent ballroom is a dazzling display of wealth and power, the air alive with the hum of conversation and the gentle sway of music. Alex and Stella weave through the crowd, their movements fluid and graceful as they navigate the intricate social landscape.

Occasionally, their gazes meet, the underlying tension and attraction simmering just beneath the surface. The need to maintain their cover, to avoid drawing unwanted attention, forces them to maintain a careful distance, even as their bodies yearn to close the gap.

Rafe ghosts into Stella’s periphery in a tux with a different mask—now the “patron.” He leans close at the champagne tower, voice pitched for her mic: “Smile. You’re incandescent when you try to hide.” Alex catches the tableau across the room and stills.

Ziphy moves along the wall, swapping out candles for “calming” ones that smell like citrus and safety. He lights one and it promptly shoots a foot-high sparkler. He smothers it with his vest, smiles at a guard like this is normal, and writes on his cuff: Candle v3 = not calming.

As the mission unfolds, Alex and Stella find themselves working in tandem, their skills and instincts complementing each other’s in a captivating dance of strategy and deception. But the threat of their personal feelings jeopardizing the entire operation is never far from their minds, a constant source of unease that threatens to unravel their carefully constructed facade.

The gala guests are none the wiser as Alex and Stella move through the crowd, their every word and gesture carefully calculated to blend in with the elite social circle. But beneath the veneer of sophistication, their hearts race with the thrill of the mission and the weight of their growing connection.

Rafe’s hand rests at the small of Stella’s back for a three-count as he murmurs intel—exactly long enough for cameras to read “intimate.” “Close-quarters rehearsal,” he whispers. “Let him feel it.”

Ziphy taps his comm, whispering to himself more than anyone: “I love truth. I love help. I love—” He stops. Not yet.

The elegant facade of the gala suddenly erupts into chaos as the rival duo launches a surprise attack, their movements swift and ruthless. Alex and Stella are caught off guard, their cover nearly blown as they scramble to react to the unfolding situation.

Glasses shatter; music snaps off midphrase. A strobe of alarms dyes the room red.

“We’ve been compromised!” Stella hisses, her eyes darting around the room as she assess the threat. “We need to get out of here, now.”

Alex’s mind races, his training kicking in as he grabs Stella’s hand and begin to navigate the panicked crowd. “This way, quickly!”

Rafe’s voice: “Asset moving to north gallery. Knight, primary escort. Ashford—shadow or you’ll spook it.” The order lands like ice water.

Above, Cookie Girl flicks her wand; a sugar lattice appears for a single heartbeat in the sprinkler line, rerouting the first blast away from Alex and Stella. To everyone else it looks like luck. To Ziphy, it looks like homework. He mouths, thank you, and trips over a violin case.

The two rivals weave through the throng of guests, their hearts pounding in their chests as they narrowly avoid the rival team’s onslaught. In the confusion, they become separated from their own teammates, left to fend for themselves as they attempt to complete the mission and escape the scene undetected.

Rafe appears at Stella’s elbow—mask off now, playing “trusted contact.” He steps into her space, palm to her waist as he turns her into a guard’s blind spot. “With me,” he says low. Alex sees the touch but not the tactic.

From a balcony rail, the BLADE drones unfold like black roses and drift into the air. Rafe twitches two fingers; the petals orient. One hovers directly over Alex’s path, lens blinking. Another tracks Stella’s pulse at her throat.

Ducking into a secluded alcove, Alex and Stella find themselves trapped, their backs pressed against the wall as they confront their new reality.

“We’re on our own,” Stella murmurs, her gaze meeting Alex’s with a mixture of apprehension and resolve.

Alex nods, his fingers drumming against the ornate molding as he contemplate his options. “Then we’ll have to rely on each other. No more games, Stella. Our lives are on the line here.”

Stella’s jaw tightens, the weight of Alex’s words sinking in. She know that this is no longer about the competition, but about survival. Reluctantly, she nod, her posture shifting as she prepare to work in tandem with her rival. “Fine. What’s the plan, Liam?”

Ziphy, sweating, appears at the corridor mouth with a tray of innocuous petits fours that are actually peel-to-throw smokes. He whispers, “Plan Macaron… tiny diversion?” Alex shakes his head once—not yet. Ziphy nods, proud of his restraint for a full second, then drops one. It fizzles like a confused firefly.

The sound of approaching footsteps sends a jolt of adrenaline through their bodies, and they instinctively move closer, their shoulders brushing as they ready themselves for the confrontation. In this moment, the lines between rivalry and partnership blur, their only focus the need to escape the chaos and complete the mission.

Alex’s gaze is unwavering, his voice low and urgent. “We’ll have to move quickly and quietly. Stay close to me, Stella. I’ve got your back.”

Stella’s fingers tighten around the concealed weapon at her side, her nod a silent acknowledgment of the tentative trust they are placing in their rival. “Then let’s do this, Liam.”

Together, they brace themselves, prepared to face whatever challenges await them in the shadows.

Rafe’s whisper into both comms is velvet and barbed: “Copy your formation. Knight—on me for asset auth. Ashford, hold rear.”

Cookie Girl peeks around a cornice, gives Ziphy a sheriff’s-badge nod. He mouths, three words? She taps her ear, points to Alex and Stella, and traces a heart in the air that pops into edible glitter, then vanishes. Lesson logged: not I love shells. Not tonight.

Crouched in the shadowed alcove, the sound of their pursuers’ footsteps drawing ever closer, Alex and Stella find themselves forced to confront the vulnerabilities they have been so desperately trying to conceal.

Stella’s fingers tremble as she tighten her grip on the weapon, her gaze darting around the narrow space. “Liam, I… I’m not sure I can do this. Not with you.”

The admission hangs in the air, weighted with a lifetime of hurt and betrayal. Alex’s heart clenches, his own personal demons surging to the surface.

“Stella, look at me,” he murmur, his voice low and laced with a rare tenderness. “I know this isn’t easy. Hell, I’m barely holding it together myself.”

Footsteps pass within arm’s length. Alex shields Stella with his body without thinking; her breath hits his collarbone, hot and shaky. The jasmine from the ballroom clings to him now, frustratingly not his.

Stella’s eyes meet Alex’s, and in that moment, the walls they’ve so meticulously constructed begin to crumble. The fierce rivals, the embodiment of ambition and competition, are stripped bare, revealing the fragile, wounded souls beneath.

“My last partner… he/she betrayed me. Shattered the trust I’d worked so hard to build.” Stella’s voice is barely above a whisper, the words laced with a pain that cuts deep. “I can’t go through that again, Liam. I just can’t.”

Alex’s fingers reach out, hesitantly, to brush against Stella’s arm, an unspoken offer of comfort. “I know. Believe me, I know. My last relationship… it nearly destroyed me.”

Stella’s eyes widen, her gaze searching Alex’s face. “You too?”

Alex nods, his expression solemn. “The emotional scars, the trust issues… it’s why I’m here, Stella. Why I have to win this. To prove that I’m more than just a broken, damaged person.”

The understanding that blossoms between them is palpable, a fragile connection forged in the crucible of their shared pain. In this moment, the lines between rivalry and kinship blur, and they find themselves grasping for a lifeline in the chaos. “We’re in this together, Stella,” Alex murmurs, his fingers intertwining with Stella’s. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it head-on. No more games, no more hiding. Just us.”

Stella’s breath catches in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. “Liam…”

Rafe breaks in: “Knight—asset in position, north gallery. Immediate proximity test.” The words sound clinical. The test will not be.

The sound of approaching footsteps shatters the intimate moment, and they instinctively tighten their grip on each other, bracing for the confrontation to come. But in the depths of their eyes, a spark of understanding and the promise of something more lingers, a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty that lies ahead.

They move, hands parting last.

Ziphy watches them go and almost says it—almost. “I love—” He swallows it. Later.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the shadowed alcove, and Alex and Stella instinctively tighten their grip on each other, bracing for the confrontation to come. In this pivotal moment, they are faced with a choice – to continue their ruthless rivalry or to trust each other and work together to outmaneuver their opponents.

Stella’s gaze meets Alex’s, her eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and determination. “Liam, what do we do? We’re cornered, and our mission is falling apart.”

Alex’s mind races, weighing the options before him. “We can’t give up now, Stella. Not when we’ve come this far.” His fingers tighten around Stella’s hand, a silent plea for trust.

“But what about the competition? Our rivalry?” Stella’s voice is laced with uncertainty, the weight of her ambition and personal history threatening to pull them apart.

“Screw the competition,” Alex hisses, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. “Right now, our lives are on the line. We need to work together, Stella. It’s the only way we’re getting out of this alive.”

Stella’s breath catches in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. She know that Alex is right – the stakes have never been higher, and her personal feelings have become irrelevant in the face of their immediate survival.

“Alright, Liam. What’s the plan?”

A flicker of relief passes across Alex’s features, and he quickly outline a strategy, their voices hushed and urgent as they coordinate their movements. The sound of their pursuers grows ever closer, but in this moment, the rivals have put aside their differences, their sole focus the successful completion of the mission.

As they spring into action, their bodies moving in perfect sync, a newfound understanding and trust blossoms between them. The lines between rivalry and partnership have been irrevocably blurred, and the future of their relationship hangs in the balance.

From the catwalk, Cookie Girl sighs like a referee who loves the game. She taps her wand twice—time slows by a breath, just enough to slide a guard’s gaze past Alex like rain down glass. “Earn it,” she whispers to no one.

They breach the north gallery in a smooth two-count. BARCAROLLE turns out not to be a dossier but a person—young, frightened, clutching a silver clutch like a life raft. Rafe materializes as “cover,” sliding to Stella’s side, mouth near her ear.

“He’ll only move with you,” Rafe says, palm at Stella’s hip to pivot her into the asset’s line of sight. “Sell it.” His voice is low, intimate, meant for her mic—and for Alex’s temper.

Stella steps in, close to the asset, closer still when Rafe presses a hand to the small of her back to guide. To the cameras—and to Alex—it reads like something else entirely. The jasmine floods the corridor as a passing guest brushes Alex’s shoulder; jealousy blooms with it.

“Knight, maintain contact,” Rafe orders. “Closer.” Stella obeys—because the asset shakes less with her near—while Alex, breathing ragged, breaks formation by a step to get between them and a guard. The guard’s attention nets them. A shout. A gun lifts.

Rafe snaps, ice now: “Ashford, position! You just burned our blind spot.”

Ziphy panics. His thumb hovers over AURA (calming mist), skitters, lands on the unlabeled third canister. A soft foomph—and the corridor fills with glittering cookie-scented fog that smells like jasmine, citrus, and the faintest memory of tar. The guard sneezes; cameras bloom with bokeh. Cookie Girl facepalms in midair and then, grudgingly, gives him a tiny thumbs-up.

The moment detonates. The asset bolts. Security converges. Stella’s head whips toward Alex—hurt, disbelief, anger—before training slams back into place. She hauls the asset behind cover, mask of calm welded on.

Overhead, the BLADE drones unfold, petals tightening to razor edges before shifting back to petals—Cookie Girl snaps her wand, and a sugar-filament net briefly gums up their intakes. They wobble, recover, and keep filming.

They escape—barely—into the service stairs, alarms howling. The door slams. Silence drops like a verdict.

Stella rounds on Alex, voice low and surgical.

“You broke formation.”

Alex—flushed, breath staccato—fires back.

“He had his hands all over you. That wasn’t the op, that was—”

“—a stress test,” Rafe says from the landing, unruffled, one hand on the rail as if this is a classroom. “You failed.” His eyes cut to Alex. “Both of you did. But only one of you made it personal.”

In the corner of the stairwell, Ziphy clutches the spent canister, glitter twinkling on his lashes. He whispers to himself, desperate, “I love showing up. I love boundaries. I love—” His voice breaks. Not yet.

Stella’s jaw hardens. She takes one step back from Alex, then another, as if distance equals control.

“We’re done,” she says, voice flat as slate. “Professionally, we will finish what we started. Personally, there is nothing here to compromise again.”

Alex’s mouth opens—then closes. The jasmine hangs between them like smoke from a bridge already burned.

Rafe watches the fracture form, satisfaction hidden under professionalism.

“Reset in ten,” he says, already turning away. “We run it again. This time, you either fake it, break it, or take it.”

Cookie Girl lands lightly on the rail beside Ziphy, invisible to everyone else. She taps his forehead with the lollipop’s edge. “You’re close,” she says. “Stop trying to say it like a spell. Say it like a promise.” She points her wand at the floor—tar-dark, a seam only she and Ziphy can see—then winks and dissolves into sparkle.

The seam quivers. A low bloop like a memory. Ziphy swallows hard, pockets the empty canister, and finally writes the last line on his palm: I love… telling the truth even when it explodes my plan.

Somewhere below, the floor hums. The Emergency Boom Protocol he didn’t trigger arms itself on a ten-minute fail-safe—nonlethal, loud, bright, undeniable—because Ziphy wired it to go off only if the team kept lying to themselves.

Ten minutes.

Reset in ten.

Rafe’s countdown and Ziphy’s timer start at the same second.

And all at once, the gauntlet isn’t just the mission.

It’s the truth they can’t stop dodging—about the op, about Rafe, about the perfume, about the three words.

When the clock hits zero, something is going to go boom.

Chapter 35: Confronting the Past

The grand ballroom of the ACID estate is a blur of activity as the Heartthrob competition candidates regroup, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and apprehension. Alex and Stella, their rivalry simmering beneath the surface, find themselves summoned to a private meeting with the lead instructors.

From behind a floral tower, a catering cart noses into frame. It’s Ziphy, in a blazer that squeaks when he moves, pushing a “hydration and tissues” bar he built from three seltzer kegs, a borrowed defibrillator, and what looks suspiciously like a glitter fire extinguisher. He whispers to himself: “Support, not spectacle. Small, not boom.”

The air is thick with tension as the two rivals enter the secluded conference room, their shoulders squared and their eyes guarded. The instructors, their faces etched with a grave seriousness, waste no time in addressing the elephant in the room.

A ceiling panel over the projector drops half an inch, then stops. A sugared sparkle leaks through the seam like starlight. Only Ziphy notices, looks up, and mouths, “Please don’t be you,” to whatever deity handles pastry-based miracles.

“The mission was a disaster,” one of the instructors begins, their voice cutting through the uneasy silence. “Your inability to work together as a team nearly cost you the entire operation.”

Ziphy, eager to help, attempts to lower blackout shades for “privacy.” He pulls the wrong cord. A wall-mounted emergency banner unfurls: ACID FAMILY FUN DAY – TRUST FALLS! No one moves. Ziphy, scarlet, yanks again; the banner retracts halfway and sticks, leaving TRU dangling over everyone’s heads like a moral.

Alex and Stella exchange a weighted glance, the weight of their growing connection and the personal baggage they carry hanging between them like a physical barrier.

“We apologize for the… complications,” Stella says, her voice tight with a barely concealed edge of defiance. “It won’t happen again.”

The lead instructor’s brow furrows, their gaze piercing. “See that it doesn’t. The Heartthrob program demands the utmost dedication and emotional fortitude. If you’re unable to put aside your personal feelings and work as a cohesive unit, you will be eliminated.”

Ziphy wheels his cart two inches closer to be “near but not in the scene,” nudges the glitter extinguisher, and triggers a polite pffft of edible shimmer that settles on the lead instructor’s shoulders like dignified dandruff. He mouths sorry with his whole face and places a single tissue on the table as if that fixes physics.

Alex’s fingers drum against the polished conference table, his jaw clenching. “With all due respect, our personal feelings are what make us human. They’re what drive us to succeed.”

The instructors exchange a weighted glance, their expressions inscrutable. “Then you had better find a way to harness those feelings, Liam, before they become your undoing.”

The unspoken implication hangs in the air, and Alex feels a familiar pang of apprehension. He know that the personal connection he’ve forged with Stella, the very thing that has become a source of both solace and distraction, could now jeopardize his chances of winning the Heartthrob title.

Stella’s gaze is unwavering, her fingers tapping against the table in a restless rhythm. “What do you suggest we do?”

The lead instructor’s lips curve into a thin, humorless smile. “Confront your demons, candidates. Overcome your emotional vulnerabilities, or risk being consumed by them.”

With those parting words, the instructors depart, leaving Alex and Stella to grapple with the gravity of the situation. The rivals exchange a charged glance, the weight of their personal baggage and the uncertainty of their future hanging heavily between them.

Ziphy tries to back his cart out gracefully. One of the seltzer taps snags on the doorjamb. The handle flips. A geyser arcs, bouncing off the TRU banner and baptizing Ziphy, the carpet, and Alex’s shoes. Ziphy turns the wrong valve; the defibrillator chirps READY. He slaps it off with a napkin, then carefully closes the door from the hallway and gives himself a double thumbs-up that no one sees.

“Looks like we don’t have a choice, Stella,” Alex murmurs, his voice laced with a hint of resignation. “We’ve got work to do.”

The tension in the room is palpable as Alex and Stella are left alone, the weight of the instructors’ words hanging heavily between them. For a long moment, neither speaks, the air thick with unspoken emotions.

Finally, Alex breaks the silence, his voice low and laced with a rare vulnerability. “Stella, I… I need to be honest with you. About my past.”

Stella’s gaze flickers to Alex, her brow furrowed with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. “What is it, Liam?”

Alex takes a deep, steadying breath, his fingers tracing the polished surface of the table. “My last relationship… it was toxic. Emotionally draining. I gave everything I had, and in the end, I was left with nothing but scars.”

Through the transom, a tiny petal-drone from the BLADE case whirs up to “improve audio capture.” Ziphy, monitoring from the hall, tries to reduce mic gain. He reduces the lights instead. The room drops to “moody.” He boosts brightness. Disco. He panics and yanks the plug. The drone bumps the glass, rewrites its life goals, and lands in a plant.

Stella’s eyes widen slightly, a flicker of recognition passing across her features. “I know the feeling all too well,” she murmur, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alex’s gaze meets Stella’s, and in that moment, the walls they’ve both so carefully constructed begin to crumble. “My partner, he/she… he/she betrayed me. Shattered the trust I’d worked so hard to build.” Stella’s fingers curl into a fist, her knuckles turning white with the intensity of her grip.

“I vowed I’d never let myself be that vulnerable again,” she continue, her words laced with a pain that cuts deep. “The Heartthrob competition, it’s my chance to prove that I’m more than just a broken, damaged person.”

Alex nods, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I know the feeling. That’s why I’m here, too. To show the world that I’m more than just the sum of my past mistakes.”

A lollipop wand tip taps the transom from the other side of reality; a stardust circle glints and vanishes. Cookie Girl’s voice is a sugar thread in Ziphy’s ear alone: “No booms. Mirror their courage, messenger.” Ziphy writes on his palm: I love… truth > spectacle. Then underlines tries.

The understanding that blossoms between them is palpable, a fragile connection forged in the crucible of their shared pain. In this moment, the lines between rivalry and kinship blur, and they find themselves grasping for a lifeline in the chaos.

“We’re in this together, Stella,” Alex murmurs, his fingers reaching out to brush against Stella’s. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it head-on. No more games, no more hiding. Just us.”

Stella’s breath catches in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. “Liam…”

The intimate moment is shattered by the sound of the door opening, and the rivals quickly compose themselves, their masks of composure firmly back in place. But in the depths of their eyes, a newfound understanding lingers, a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty that lies ahead.

The door opens, and the ACID’s lead psychologist steps into the room, their expression grave yet compassionate.

“Candidates, it’s time to begin the intensive therapy sessions,” they announce, their gaze sweeping between Alex and Stella. “Overcoming your personal baggage is crucial to your success in this program. Fail, and you don’t just lose the competition. You’re cut from ACID—permanently.”

Ziphy, already retreating with his cart, hears permanently, makes a sharp turn of solidarity, and crashes into a freestanding brochure tree. Pamphlets explode like migrating birds: COMMUNICATION BUT WITH FEELINGS, SO YOU TRIED VULNERABILITY AND NOW YOU’RE DIZZY, EDIBLE GLITTER: A GUIDELINE. He scrambles, re-stacks, accidentally hands the psychologist the glitter one. They accept it without blinking.

That word — permanently — lands like a knife. For Alex, it means the end of the only second chance he’s ever been given. For Stella, it means returning to a world that had already betrayed her once.

Alex and Stella exchange a weighted glance, the unspoken agreement to put aside their rivalry and work together evident in the subtle shift of their postures.

“We’re ready,” Stella says, her voice steady and resolute.

The psychologist nods, their lips curving into a thin smile. “Good. The path ahead will not be an easy one, but the rewards of your efforts could be life-changing.”

Over the next several weeks, Alex and Stella find themselves immersed in a grueling regimen of therapy sessions, their every emotion and vulnerability laid bare under the watchful eye of the ACID’s team of experts.

Ziphy volunteers for “non-intrusive logistical support.” Translation: he drags a crate of “grounding aids” (smooth stones, stress clay, and one emergency cupcake) into VR Lab A. He labels the crate CALM. Inside, beneath the top layer, a smaller box reads EXTRA CALM (SPARKS). He draws a skull over the word SPARKS and a heart next to CALM.

The process is brutal: deprivation chambers, VR simulations that dredge up their worst memories, confessions under lie-detection stress tests. The instructors don’t just want honesty — they want to break them.

Ziphy’s job is to calibrate the VR “rain”—a soothing pixel drizzle meant to lower arousal. He turns the knob to gentle shower. The ceiling emits hail. He spins it to mist. A thunderclap plays “RELAX MIX – EXTREME.” He unplugs the panel; the rain stops; the wind machine starts. He plugs it back; the floor vibrates. He places the emergency cupcake on the console like a peace offering to the gods of UX.

The sessions force the rivals to confront the darkest corners of their psyche. They revisit betrayals, heartbreaks, the humiliations that shaped them. Stella relives the night of her betrayal — a partner leaving her stranded mid-op. Alex relives the slow erosion of his trust under gaslighting and manipulation.

Outside the one-way glass, Ziphy holds up cue cards he hand-lettered for the therapists: LESS STROBE, MORE WATER, AVOID PERFUME PROMPTS. He drops the marker. It rolls under the chair. He reaches, pulls a cable. The lie-detector printer erupts with a foot of paper that reads TRUTH? in ASCII art.

Through it all, Alex and Stella begin leaning on each other, their initial hesitation giving way to a tentative trust. A stolen glance during a nightmare simulation, a hand steadying the other after a panic spiral — little gestures that begin to mean everything.

Ziphy attempts “micro-comfort delivery”: two warm stones and a folded towel. He slides them through the VR hatch with a gentle push. The tray launches like a puck, ricochets off a sensor, and lands perfectly—on Alex’s lap. He scribbles: reduce push by 70%.

The breakthroughs are hard-won, marked by tears, shame, and moments of raw, unguarded emotion. But as the sessions progress, Alex and Stella feel the weight of their personal baggage begin to lift, replaced by a sense of clarity and purpose.

A petal-drone hums alive over the booth to record heart rates. Ziphy tries to “soften” its tone by taping a tiny felt heart over the speaker. The tape covers the cooling vent. The drone overheats, squeaks like a sad bee, and slowly descends onto Stella’s shoulder like a fainting moth. Stella, eyes closed, reaches up and hands it back without looking. Ziphy bows. The drone bows. They both pretend that was therapeutic.

“I never thought I’d be able to trust someone again,” Stella confesses during one particularly intense session, her gaze locked with Alex’s. “But you… you’re different, Liam.”

Alex’s throat tightens. For a second, he wants to believe it — but the cost of believing is too high. “And if trusting me means you fail this program? Means you lose everything you fought for?”

Stella doesn’t answer. Her silence is answer enough.

A conscience-pricking ting of a lollipop on glass makes Ziphy glance up. Cookie Girl watches from the reflection, mouthing: “Let the truth land. Don’t stage it.” Ziphy places his last gadget—a “compassion confetti” popper—back in the crate. He writes on his palm: I love… not fixing the feeling.

The intimacy between them grows, and with it, the costs sharpen. Rival candidates start whispering — that Alex and Stella are liabilities, distractions, lovers masquerading as spies. Their reputations in the program shift from untouchable to vulnerable.

Some instructors stoke the fire: “Let them lean in. Love is a weapon too.” Others sneer: “They’re liabilities. Pair them together and you’ll be digging two graves.”

Alex and Stella know one truth: whichever way they choose, someone will use it against them.

One evening, after another excruciating session, they find themselves alone in the therapy wing. Their hands find each other almost by instinct, fingers intertwining.

Ziphy, having installed “soft footfall mats,” sprints to switch off the corridor fluorescents for ambiance and trips over his own mat, executing a quiet, elongated pratfall that ends with him gently hugging a potted ficus. He gives them a thumbs-up from the floor like this was planned.

“Stella,” Alex murmurs, his eyes searching Stella’s face. “Whatever we decide, I’m with you. No more games, no more hiding. Just us.”

Stella’s breath catches, torn between the heat in Alex’s words and the voice of the psychologist still echoing in her mind: If you choose this bond, you risk elimination.

The clock is ticking. The final phase of the Heartthrob competition looms — and now, the cost of love isn’t just heartbreak. It’s survival.

From the far end of the wing, a soft bloop—the sound of something sticky remembering itself—pulses once in the pipes. Cookie Girl’s wand flickers in the exit sign, then winks out. Ziphy, still on the floor with the ficus, stares at his palm where the ink has blurred with sweat, and whispers to the empty hall:

“I love… telling the truth even if it ruins the bit.”

The automatic air freshener chooses that exact moment to spritz white jasmine & oud. Ziphy coughs, glares at it like a nemesis, and slaps a DO NOT sticky over the nozzle.

He stands, resets the mats, re-shelves the compassion popper, and rolls his cart away—determined to support quietly on the next round.

The cart’s back wheel falls off, the glitter extinguisher slips, and a dignified comet of shimmer arcs down the corridor behind him.

Ziphy does not look back. He keeps going.

Chapter 36: The Final Challenge

Frost lifts off the treeline like breath. Radios crackle, then hush. Inside the convoy, the leather seats creak when anyone remembers to breathe.

From the rear SUV, a fourth vehicle ghosts along—an equipment van with a crooked magnetic sign: EVENT BEVERAGE SERVICES. At the wheel: Ziphy, wearing a headset, a tuxedo jacket, and the expression of a man who has YouTubed bravery. In the passenger seat rides a hard case the size of a dorm fridge stenciled Z.E.N. (Ziphy Emergency Network). Beneath that, in smaller letters, DO NOT PRESS BIG BUTTON.

The convoy of sleek, black SUVs glides through the winding roads, cutting a path through the serene, forested landscape. Inside one of the vehicles, Alex and Stella sit in tense silence, their gazes fixed straight ahead as they approach their final destination.

Across from them, two younger candidates—Tamsin with a jittering knee and Ortega with a too-tight collar—watch Alex for cues. Alex reaches up, taps two fingers to his throat mic, then his temple, then points, slow and deliberate: listen, think, move. Tamsin copies the sequence, breath evening out.

In Ziphy’s van, a thermos tips, floods the cup holders, and short-pops his seat warmer. He yelps, yanks the Z.E.N. case lid, and reveals an over-labeled control panel: SOFT JAMMER, HARD JAMMER, ROMANCE AMBIENCE (BETA), CONFETTI (EDIBLE), FOAM: MAYBE. He writes on his palm: small help, underlines it three times, and definitely does not look at the Big Button glowing a persuasive, nuclear orange.

The tension in the air is palpable, crackling with the weight of their shared history and the uncertainty that lies ahead. Both candidates are acutely aware that this moment, this final challenge, will test them to their very limits – physically, tactically, and emotionally.

Stella pulls a folded napkin map from her sleeve—hand-sketched choke points, thermal cameras, drift of prevailing wind. “Crossbreeze will carry sound to the east wall,” she murmur, her voice low. “Count three between doors to avoid camera overlap.” Ortega nods, commits it to muscle memory.

Ziphy rehearses, softly: “Support, not spectacle. Guide, not hero. Guide, not hero.” The van hits a pine cone. The Z.E.N. case bonks his knee like punctuation.

As the compound comes into view, Alex’s fingers tighten around the armrest, his knuckles turning white. Stella’s jaw is set, her expression schooled into one of calm, unwavering determination. They know that the path to victory is fraught with peril, and any hesitation or misstep could cost them everything.

Alex exhales. “Rule one,” he tell the younger pair, “I make the noise, you make the choice. If it gets loud, you take the clean path. Understood?”

“Understood,” Tamsin says, surprised at how steady she sounds.

When the vehicles come to a stop, the candidates step out into the crisp, morning air, their senses immediately on high alert. The compound is a fortress, its sleek, modern architecture a stark contrast to the surrounding wilderness. Armed guards stand at the perimeter, their watchful gazes assessing the newcomers.

Ziphy parallel parks into a snowbank. His van’s back door pops open by itself. A slim rocket of rolled carpet labeled “SILENT LADDER v2” slides out, unrolls, and turns into the loudest aluminum extension ladder anyone has ever heard. He winces, whisper-shouts, “Ssshhh,” at physics and drags it back in.

Pine sap, cold metal, a faint tang of ozone from the perimeter grid. Somewhere, a bird tries a song and gives up.

Alex and Stella exchange a charged glance, their eyes locking in a silent exchange that speaks volumes. They have come too far to falter now, their rivalry and personal connection forged through the crucible of the Heartthrob competition.

Stella’s glove brushes Alex’s wrist—nothing to see, everything to feel. We move.

As the lead ACID instructor approaches, the candidates stand at attention, their postures radiating a combination of anticipation and apprehension. The instructor’s gaze sweeps over the group, their expression unreadable.

Rafe Calder idles three paces behind the lead, eyes unreadable, recording everything. Dr. Alfred Anand—calm, precise—flanks the other side.

“Candidates,” the instructor begins, their voice cutting through the stillness, “welcome to the final phase of the Heartthrob competition. The challenge you are about to face will test the very limits of your abilities. Failure is not an option.”

“Failure is a cost,” Dr. Alfred adds, too softly for most to hear. “Human, not just tactical.”

Alex’s heart pounds in his chest, his mind racing with the possibilities that lie ahead. Stella’s fingers twitch at her side, a telltale sign of her barely contained nervous energy.

Alex leans toward the rookies. “Keep your hands low. Nervous reads as armed.”

“You have trained for this moment,” the instructor continues, their tone brooking no argument. “Now, it is time to prove your worth. The future of the Heartthrob program hangs in the balance.”

Rafe’s comm clicks live: “And some of you won’t be coming back if you play hero.” He doesn’t say which some.

With those words, the instructor turns and leads the way into the compound, the candidates falling into step behind them, their determination etched onto their faces. Alex and Stella exchange one last, weighted glance, silently acknowledging the gravity of the task that lies before them.

The final competition has begun.

Heat lamps thrum. A door sighs open, swallowing them.

The heavy steel doors groan as they part, revealing a sprawling, state-of-the-art facility that seems to stretch on endlessly. Alex and Stella exchange a wary glance, their senses heightened as they step into the dimly lit interior.

The air tastes like dusted copper and coolant. Somewhere, fans cycle. A camera iris whispers.

A beat later, a catering cart labeled HYDRATION squeaks through after them. Ziphy, in a hairnet he does not need, whispers at the door sensor, “I belong.” The sensor disagrees. He hip-checks it. The cart rockets forward, barely misses a guard, and kisses a wall with the softest bonk. On the tray: water, gauze, two coils of rope, three whistles labeled NON-SWALLOWABLE v2, and a clamshell marked IN CASE OF FEELINGS—OPEN.

The instructors waste no time in briefing the candidates on the nature of the final challenge. “This is no ordinary mission,” the lead instructor declares, their voice echoing through the cavernous space. “You will be tasked with infiltrating a high-security compound, retrieving sensitive intel, and neutralizing any threats that stand in your way.”

A schematic flickers to life: four floors, mirrored corridors, a vault pinned like a heartbeat in the center.

Alex feels a familiar thrill of anticipation, his fingers twitching with the need to spring into action. Stella, on the other hand, remains outwardly calm, her gaze unwavering as she listen intently to the instructions.

Stella traces the route in the air—one, two, skip three—making space for Alex to annotate with hand signs. Tamsin watches their hands, learning a new language on the fly.

“And to make things more… interesting,” the instructor continues, a hint of amusement in their tone, “we’ve decided to pair you up in teams.”

A ripple of nerves. Someone coughs. Boots scuff.

Alex’s brow furrows, his heart sinking as he realize the implication. He glance over at Stella, his eyes locking in a silent exchange that speaks volumes.

Rafe, on comms: “Randomized pairs are for people we don’t trust.”

Silence answers him, thick as velvet.

“Liam Ashford and Stella Knight,” the instructor announces, their lips curving into a subtle smile. “You will be working together on this mission.”

A few heads turn. A few smiles don’t reach eyes. It isn’t approval. It’s anticipation.

The air seems to crackle with the tension between the two rivals, their hard-won trust and growing connection now put to the ultimate test. Alex can feel the weight of Stella’s gaze upon him, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

Alex nods once. Yes. Together.

With a deep, steadying breath, Alex steps forward, his expression resolute. “We’re ready,” he declare, his voice laced with a confidence that belies the turmoil within.

He look back at Tamsin and Ortega. “Shadows, not spotlights,” Alex says. “You see me make a mistake, you learn it once. You see me fix it, you teach it twice.”

Stella follows suit, her shoulder brushing against Alex’s in a gesture that speaks volumes. “Let’s get this done,” she murmur, her eyes reflecting a determination that matches Alex’s own.

“Stay on my left,” Stella tells Ortega. “If I stop, you breathe. If I run, you fly.”

The instructors nod, seemingly satisfied with the candidates’ response. “Very well. Your mission begins now.”

Dr. Alfred, almost an afterthought: “Bring each other back.”

As the heavy doors slide shut behind them, Alex and Stella find themselves plunged into a world of shadows and intrigue, their every move scrutinized by unseen eyes. With their personal feelings set aside, they must navigate this high-stakes scenario, relying on their combined skills and instincts to overcome the unexpected obstacles and formidable opponents that stand in their way.

The final competition has begun.

They move like ink.

Behind them, Ziphy palms the Z.E.N. case and whispers to his wrist mic: “Non-intrusive support active.” The case answers in a cheerful voice it shouldn’t have: “ROMANCE AMBIENCE ARMED.” He slaps the mute, horrified.

The compound is a labyrinth of shadows and hidden passages, and Alex and Stella find themselves moving with a practiced, synchronized grace that belies the tension simmering between them.

Alex hands Tamsin a coil of fiberoptic snake. “Light eats secrets. Feed it first.” Tamsin slides the cam under a door; green washes the tiny screen—clear.

Ziphy tries to deploy FOAM: MAYBE as a corridor slick to stall patrols. He twists the dial to 1. The gauge zips to 11. Foam expands like a newly optimistic glacier, swallows his shoes, and burps him out into a supply closet. He leaves a hand-written sign: CAUTION: COMEDIC FLOOR with a smiley face he immediately regrets.

Their eyes dart from one corner to the next, scanning for any sign of movement or potential threat. Alex’s fingers tighten around the grip of his weapon, his muscles coiled and ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

Sweat beads under the ridge of the glove. Footfalls count time. Air vents whisper code.

Stella, on the other hand, remains outwardly calm, her gaze focused and her movements fluid. She know this compound like the back of her hand, the result of countless hours spent studying the layout and anticipating every possible scenario.

They tap a wall panel twice; a hidden seam breathes open. “Skip the camera grid,” Stella murmurs. “Teach your eyes to find lazy lines.” Ortega repeats the tap pattern, gets it wrong, gets it right.

As they round a corner, the sound of approaching footsteps sends a jolt of adrenaline through their veins. Without a word, Alex and Stella melt into the shadows, their bodies pressed close together as they wait with bated breath for the threat to pass.

Alex angles a mirror—boots, two guards, a third shadow lagging with a limp. Stella lifts three fingers, folds one: two plus one trailing. Alex nods. Teach by doing.

Ziphy, attempting “soft jammer,” flicks SOFT. The switch sticks halfway between SOFT and HARD and somehow engages ROMANCE AMBIENCE (BETA) instead. Corridor sconces dim to candlelight; hidden speakers exhale a low bossa nova; the building’s scent system misfires a microburst of white jasmine & oud. Alex and Stella stare at absolutely no one while the air itself tries to flirt. Ziphy hammers the toggle with his notebook until the music dies in a wounded saxophone squeal.

In the tense silence, Alex can feel the heat of Stella’s breath against his cheek, the familiar scent of her cologne triggering a flurry of memories and emotions that he had worked so hard to suppress.

The scent is cedar, clean steel, and something warm that doesn’t belong in a place like this.

Stella’s eyes meet Alex’s, and in that moment, a silent understanding passes between them. They know each other’s strengths, their weaknesses, the subtle tells that could give them away. It is a connection forged through the crucible of their rivalry, a bond that now threatens to unravel the very fabric of the competition.

Alex whispers, barely air: “On my break, you sweep.” Stella’s mouth tilts—the plan is sound.

With a nod, they slip out of their hiding place, their movements fluid and coordinated as they make their way deeper into the compound. The air is thick with the scent of danger, and Alex can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Tamsin stumbles—just a toecatch—and Alex’s hand is there, a ghost. “Hips over heels,” he murmur, and she rights herself, cheeks burning but feet surer.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire echoes through the corridors, and Alex and Stella find themselves thrown into the chaos of a firefight. They duck behind a wall, their bodies pressed close together as they return fire, their movements a seamless, well-rehearsed dance.

Shards skate across the floor like ice. Ortega freezes; Stella slaps a mag into his palm. “Count your breath. One. Two. Three. Shoot on four.” He does. The shot lands true.

Ziphy, meaning to deploy SMOKE BASIC, yanks a cord on his cart that reads CONFETTI (EDIBLE). A triumphant fountain of biodegradable hearts erupts into the hallway like a Vegas wedding cannon. He slaps another lever—SMOKE this time—and the confetti becomes mystery soup. He cough-whispers into comms, “Visual clutter achieved?” No one answers.

In the heat of the moment, their eyes lock, and Alex can see the same fierce determination burning in Stella’s gaze. He know that they are teetering on the edge of a precipice, their trust and communication the only things keeping them afloat.

Rafe’s voice needles in their ear: “Primary objective is the vault. Collateral is acceptable.”

Dr. Alfred, on the shadow channel: “Collateral is a life. Choose wisely.”

As the battle rages on, Alex and Stella are forced to make a series of life-or-death decisions, each one threatening to unravel the delicate balance they have struck. But with their intimate knowledge of each other’s strengths and weaknesses, they navigate the treacherous terrain, their partnership forged in the crucible of the final competition.

Screams filter from a side corridor—staff pinned behind a steel cart. The smart play is forward. Stella hesitates a fraction. Alex doesn’t. “I’m noise,” he say, already moving. “You’re choice.”

Alex sprints into the open, drawing fire with a reckless, weaving line, shouting, “Eyes on me!” while Stella swings the team to flank, frees the civilians, and—without fanfare—plants a micro-antenna on a junction box that will ghost the vault’s alarm for exactly twelve seconds.

Ziphy, attempting to assist, slams SOFT JAMMER to widen that ghost. The dial slips to HARD. All comms die—Rafe’s, the guards’, and Alex/Stella’s. The building pauses like a held breath. Ziphy blanches, slaps the case shut, sits on it, and prays. Cookie Girl’s wand glints in the reflection of a steel panel, a sugar-bright wink. He counts to three and lifts his weight; the switch springs back to SOFT. Comms stutter alive.

The chaos of the firefight intensifies, the sound of gunfire echoing through the corridors as Alex and Stella find themselves cornered, their backs pressed against the cold, unyielding wall.

Concrete dust laces the air. A light dies, flickers back like a stubborn heartbeat.

Stella’s breath comes in ragged gasps, her fingers trembling as she reload her weapon. Alex’s eyes dart around the room, searching for a way out, but the relentless onslaught of their adversaries leaves them with no clear path to escape.

“Rope,” Alex whispers. Stella’s eyes flick up—vent grille, ten feet. Too far to jump clean, too close to ignore. The wall was cold, unyielding, and their backs were pressed too hard against it. They needed a way out, but more, they needed a lifeline.

Chapter 37: Zippy’s Lifeline

In the midst of the pandemonium, their gazes lock, and Alex sees a flicker of fear in Stella’s eyes – a vulnerability that she had so carefully guarded. The realization hits him like a physical blow, and suddenly, the weight of his personal baggage, the scars of his past, threatens to consume him.

Bullet strikes stitch the wall beside Stella’s ear. She flinch—small, human. Alex steps in, shoulder to shoulder, making a wider target that somehow becomes a smaller one.

“Stella,” Alex breathes, his voice barely audible over the din of the battle. “We can’t do this alone.”

A line that is both tactic and truth.

Stella’s jaw tightens, her grip on her weapon tightening. “We have to,” she growl, her tone laced with a desperation that belies her outward composure.

“Or we teach them how,” Alex says, and tips his chin toward Tamsin and Ortega.

But Alex knows better. He can see the cracks in Stella’s armor, the emotional wounds that have been painstakingly hidden away. And in that moment, he understands that the outcome of this competition, this mission, hinges on his ability to confront those fears, to trust in the connection he has forged.

“Stack on me!” Alex barks. “Ortega, you’re hook. Tamsin, rope shot—vent lip, three feet high.”

With a deep, steadying breath, Alex reaches out, his fingers brushing against Stella’s trembling hand. “Stella, look at me,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a gentle urgency. “We’ve come too far to give up now.”

Stella’s hand steadies. “On your go,” she say, and mean it.

Stella’s gaze wavers, her eyes shining with a mixture of fear and determination. “Liam, I… I can’t. Not again. I can’t be that vulnerable.”

Alex’s answer is motion: he step out, fire twice, clean, then drop smoke like a curtain call.

Alex’s fingers tighten around Stella’s, his eyes locking in a silent plea. “You’re not alone, Stella. I’m here. We’re in this together, remember?”

“Teach them the climb,” Alex adds. “I’ll buy time.” It costs. It always costs.

The sound of approaching footsteps sends a fresh wave of panic through their veins, but Alex refuses to let go. Instead, he lean in closer, his forehead pressing against Stella’s as he whisper, “Trust me. Trust us.”

Stella nods once, sharp. Turns to Tamsin: “Tiny steps, big breath. Hips over heels.” The words echo Alex’s lesson from earlier. They’re a team because they choose to be.

For a heartbeat, the world seems to slow, and Alex can see the walls crumbling in Stella’s eyes, the barriers she has so carefully constructed finally beginning to falter.

Tamsin’s grapnel pops, finds purchase. Ortega boosts her, then goes. Stella follows last—and reaches down a hand for Alex.

With a nod, Stella’s grip on her weapon tightens, her expression hardening with resolve. “Let’s do this.”

Alex slaps a flash to the floor, palms Stella’s wrist, lets himself be hauled up through stinging light.

Ziphy, trying to help the ascent, fires SILENT LADDER v2 from a spring mount. It telescopes with a banshee shriek, hits a sprinkler head, and rains a fine mist of—God help him—white jasmine & oud. He winces so hard his hair parts.

As they spring into action, their movements fluid and coordinated, Alex knows that the outcome of the competition hangs in the balance. But in this moment, his focus is not on the prize, but on the fragile bond they have forged – a connection that could be the key to their salvation, or their undoing.

Behind them, smoke curls like a signature. Ahead, the vault hums.

The air crackles with tension as Alex and Stella face off against their adversaries, the weight of their decision hanging heavy between them. They know that the outcome of this standoff will not only determine the success of their mission but also the future of the Heartthrob program and the lasting impact of their relationship.

They hit the vault bay low and fast. Two guards. One drone. A camera with a lazy pan that misses the center by an inch every six seconds. Stella times it. Alex feels it.

Ziphy rolls up behind a column, finally presses HEARTFINDER—a palm-sized gadget he soldered from three pet trackers and a karaoke mic. It beeps once, then every time his own pulse spikes. He slaps it to his chest to “calibrate.” It screams. Cookie Girl’s wand taps the casing from the sprinkler light: the device turns—beeps toward ICARUS.

Alex’s heart pounds in his chest, his mind racing with the implications of his choice. He can feel the familiar pull of his rivalry, the desire to emerge victorious at all costs. But the connection he has forged with Stella, the fragile trust he has built, is a siren’s call that threatens to drown out everything else.

Rafe: “Take the intel ‘Hera.’ Leave ‘Icarus’—it’s bait.”

Dr. Alfred: “Bait sometimes hides a person.”

Stella’s grip on her weapon is steady, her gaze unwavering, but Alex can see the turmoil lurking beneath the surface. He knows that Stella is torn, her own personal baggage and the scars of past betrayals warring with the growing affection she feels for her rival.

Inside the vault, two cases wait. HERA—cold metal. ICARUS—warm to the touch, humming faintly, like held breath.

In the tense silence, the sound of their adversaries’ approaching footsteps echoes through the corridor, a constant reminder of the peril they face. Alex’s fingers tighten around his own weapon, his muscles coiled and ready to spring into action.

“Pick one,” Stella whispers. The test is obvious; the right answer isn’t.

But then, in a moment of clarity, Alex’s gaze meets Stella’s, and he sees the same resolve reflected in the other’s eyes. It is a silent understanding, a shared acknowledgment that the path forward is fraught with risk, but that they are willing to face it together.

Alex palms HERA into Stella’s pack—and tucks ICARUS into his own vest, letting the weight settle like a vow. If it’s bait, he’ll draw it. If it’s a life, he’ll carry it.

With a nod, Alex and Stella step forward, their movements synchronized as they raise their weapons, their bodies shielding each other from the incoming barrage of fire. The sound of gunshots fills the air, a cacophony of chaos that seems to drown out everything else.

They move as if the floor itself is choosing sides. Tamsin calls angles; Ortega watches their six with new, earned steadiness.

Ziphy, for once, chooses right: he toggles DROP BARRIERS—a line of portable, knee-high shields he rigged from serving trays and mop handles. They clatter down, ridiculous and lifesaving. One immediately tips. He body-blocks it, gets pinned, and gives a double thumbs-up while horizontal.

But in the midst of the mayhem, Alex and Stella find themselves moving as one, their trust and communication guiding their every action. They weave through the hail of bullets, their bodies pressed close together, their focus unwavering.

Rafe: “Ashford, drop the second case.”

Alex kills comms with a thumb press, chooses silence over obedience. Cost accepted.

And as the final adversary falls, Alex and Stella find themselves standing amidst the wreckage, their chests heaving, their eyes locked in a silent exchange that speaks volumes.

Stella’s eyes flick to Alex’s vest—sees the extra weight—understands the debt. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t call it out. Not here. Not yet.

Behind a column, Ziphy’s FOAM: MAYBE decides to grow again, burping up to shoulder height. He rides it like a very slow wave, whispering, “Everything is fine,” at ankle level.

The future of the Heartthrob program and the lasting impact of their relationship hanging in the balance. The audience is left to wonder whether their gamble has paid off, or if they have been consumed by the high-stakes game they have been playing.

Somewhere beyond the walls, an alarm shifts pitch—from alert to search.

The echoes of the final confrontation still linger in the air as Alex and Stella are ushered into the grand conference room, their shoulders squared and their expressions schooled into masks of composure.

Blood blooms through Alex’s sleeve, a small flower he refuse to pick. Stella stands a half-step closer than necessary.

Ziphy, ten paces behind with a rolling pelican case marked EVIDENCE??, hits a rug edge. The case flips, pops, and disgorges: whistle v2’s, heartfinder, five labeled pebbles A–E, a Romance Ambience remote that immediately pairs with the room and sets the chandelier to “date night.” He scrambles, mashing buttons until the lighting returns to “tribunal.”

The ACID’s panel of evaluators sits before them, their faces etched with an unreadable gravity. Alex can feel the weight of their scrutiny, the intensity of their gaze as they pore over the details of the mission.

Rafe’s file is thin—too thin to be complete. Dr. Alfred’s is thick with notes.

Stella’s fingers twitch at her side, a subtle tell that betrays the turmoil raging within her. She knows that the outcome of this final evaluation will not only determine the future of the Heartthrob program but also the fate of the bond she has forged with Alex.

Under the table, Alex taps once to the rhythm of their shared breath. Stella’s shoulders ease by a fraction.

The lead evaluator clears their throat, their voice cutting through the tense silence. “Candidates, your performance in the final challenge was… impressive, to say the least.” A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of their lips, and Alex feels a flicker of hope ignite within him.

Rafe’s mouth doesn’t move, but his eyes say disobedience. Dr. Alfred’s say humanity.

“The level of coordination, the seamless communication, the unwavering determination – all of it was exactly what we were looking for in our next Heartthrob.” The evaluator’s gaze shifts between Alex and Stella, their expression unreadable.

Alex says nothing of the civilians freed, the rope shot taught, the breath counted to four. The rookies will tell it better, and it will matter more if it isn’t bragged.

Alex feels Stella’s shoulder brush against his own, a silent gesture of solidarity that sends a jolt of electricity through his veins. They know that whatever the outcome, they have forged a connection that transcends the boundaries of the competition.

Stella angles her body subtly to hide the blood on Alex’s sleeve from the panel. Partnership, distilled.

“However,” the evaluator continues, their tone solemn, “the personal nature of your relationship is a matter of great concern. The Heartthrob program demands absolute focus, unwavering loyalty, and the ability to make difficult decisions without hesitation.”

Rafe: “Ashford ignored a direct order.”

Alex lifts his chin. “I carried the unknown so Knight could carry the mission. If there was a hit, it was mine. If there was a life inside, it was ours.”

The weight of those words hangs heavy in the air, and Alex can feel his heart pounding in his chest. He glances over at Stella, his eyes searching the other’s face for any hint of a reaction.

Stella doesn’t blink. “He taught our rookies under fire. We finished with more of us than we started. That’s the point.”

The evaluator’s lips curve into a thin smile. “But, as it happens, you have both demonstrated the very qualities we seek in our next Heartthrob. The decision, therefore, is a difficult one.” The closes with a sense of anticipation, the audience left to ponder the lasting consequences of Alex and Stella’s choices and the uncertain future that lies ahead. The ACID’s verdict hangs in the balance, and the characters’ fate remains shrouded in mystery, leaving the reader eager to discover what lies in store for the rivaling Heartthrob candidates.

Dr. Alfred leans forward, eyes on the bulge beneath Alex’s vest. “Before you judge,” she says, “open ICARUS.”

Rafe’s jaw ticks. A tech brings a cutter. The clasps hiss. Inside, not bait—a pulse. A terrified boy blinks up at the fluorescent light, breathing shallow, alive because someone chose the cost.

The room goes very, very quiet.

Alex doesn’t look at the panel. He looks at Stella. And Stella—jaw tight, eyes bright—finally nods.

Cost paid. Lesson taught. Verdict pending.

Ziphy, vibrating with adrenaline and remorse, edges toward the panel with the EVIDENCE?? case. “Permission to submit supportive… um… support,” he whispers, and trips over his own COMEDIC FLOOR sign, body-checking the glitter fire extinguisher, which sighs a last, sparkling breath across everyone’s shoes. Cookie Girl’s wand twinkles once in the chandelier, as if to say: go big, learn bigger. Ziphy salutes, quietly, with both hands. He doesn’t press the Big Button. Not today.

Chapter 38: The Future Rewritten

The med wing smells like antiseptic and hot metal. A strip light ticks. Alex sits on the edge of the gurney, sleeve cut away, shrapnel glinting like a cruel constellation in his forearm. Stella stands, hands ghosting over the tray, still and useless, jaw locked. Down the corridor, someone sobs—the boy from ICARUS.

Bootsteps—a familiar cadence. Rafe Calder fills the doorway, tie loosened but smile taut. “Congratulations,” he says mildly. “You’ve complicated everyone’s lives.”

“They brought a child out alive,” Dr. Alfred slides in behind him.

Rafe’s gaze flicks to Alex. “He also violated a direct order. Chain of command matters.”

Alex’s forearm weeps bright blood. He don’t flinch. “Lives matter.”

“We’ll see which ACID values more,” Rafe’s mouth hardens.

The heavy steel doors of the compound groan as they close behind Alex and Stella. The corridor eats sound. Alex flexes the wounded hand, shaking out a tremor that won’t leave. The silence is broken only when Tamsin and Ortega appear with two bitter paper cups of coffee. Tamsin whispers to Stella, “You taught me to breathe. I… I remembered,” before retreating. The support settles like a small, unexpected shield.

From somewhere beyond, a printer chatters—disciplinary reports queueing up. A buzz: HeartthrobLeak trends. The public is already writing its own story.

The heavy silence is shattered by the sound of approaching footsteps. The full panel of evaluators strides toward them, Rafe walking point. The lead evaluator begins: “You both performed admirably, but the personal nature of your relationship is a matter of grave concern.”

Stella’s mouth twitches. “Our connection prevented collateral damage.”

“It also inspired insubordination,” Rafe counters, his eyes fixed on Alex.

The Director doesn’t sit. They circle the table like a tide. “Traditionally, the Heartthrob program has crowned a single victor, but in your case, we believe a more… unconventional approach may be warranted.”

“What are you proposing?” Stella asks.

“Rather than declaring a winner, we would like to offer you both the opportunity to work together as a team—to redefine the Heartthrob program and shape its future direction.” A folder lands on the table: Contract. Addendum. No-Fraternization Clause 12(c). Mandatory Separation Protocols. Leadership, yes. At a cost that bites.

Alex and Stella exchange a long, weighted glance, silently agreeing to the price.

Hand in hand, they follow the Director through a door leading to a clean, glass-walled conference room. The Director gestures to the team of psychologists. As they settle into the therapy session, Alex and Stella brace themselves for the emotional reckoning that awaits them.

The lights dim. The psychologists rotate questions like lenses. Somewhere halfway through an exercise that requires eye contact, Alex notices that familiar scent again. Not the soft base note from the gala, but a sharper one, spiked with clove. He cataloged it in training: Rafe wears it on days he wants to be remembered.

A vibration on the tray. Tamsin’s tablet lights with a notification marked URGENT – LIVE FEED ROOM. She flicks a glance at Stella; Stella’s pupils tighten by a hair. Scent. Alert. Pattern.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Alex turns to the panel. “Before you decide,” Alex says, stepping off-script, “we need full transparency. We propose a live demonstration of the new standard. Right now.”

Stella turns to the lens light on the wall and nods. Tamsin’s thumbs fly. Ortega keys the Broadcast. The feed goes live—unfiltered, uncut.

Rafe bursts through the far door, too late to stop it. Sandalwood and clove arrive with him like a headline.

Alex doesn’t look at Rafe. He address the camera. “Rule One,” Alex says, steady. “We protect people, not myths.”

“Rule Two,” Stella adds, voice cool steel. “Transparency is not a liability. It’s a weapon.”

On the secondary screen, Tamsin pulls up a split view: the doctored footage of their escape side by side with raw body-cam and medbay footage—the boy drinking water, the rookies shielding, Dr. Alfred triaging. The lie wilts in direct light.

Rafe reaches for the console. Dr. Alfred’s hand lands on his wrist, gentle and immovable. “Let them teach.”

Stella addresses the camera again. “When a narrative is weaponized, reassemble the timeline.”

“We catalog everything,” Alex says to Rafe, almost gently. “Even your cologne.” Tamsin’s tablet displays an email chain on the big screen: Rafe coordinating with a Syndicate media stringer. The subject line reads: HEARTTHROB = LEVERAGE.

The Director doesn’t look at the screens; they look at the rookies. “Lesson learned,” the Director says. To security: “Remove Mr. Calder from the building.”

Rafe breathes out a laugh that isn’t one. “You can’t run a program like this on feelings.”

“No,” Stella says, “on standards. The ones you taught us to fake.”

The Director turns to Alex and Stella. “Leadership with conditions revised. You will be held to results. And to the truth you claim to value. That truth will cost you privacy, comfort, approval. Possibly safety.”

Alex looks at Stella, making the final, public commitment. “We’re instituting separate field rotations for leadership to eliminate conflicts of interest. We won’t serve on the same live op. We’ll still lead—together.” It is the price, and the plan.

Stella steps closer, shoulder to shoulder, hands at her sides—not touching. “Last rule,” Stella says softly, for the room and the world. “Care is not our weakness. It’s our method.”

They cut the feed.

Fog sits low over the training beach like a thought that hasn’t decided itself. The Director’s words echo: “Leadership begins at dawn. No press. No pageant. Show us what you meant.”

Alex shows the rookies how to read the break. Stella runs calisthenics until her calves burn. The boy from med bay stands wrapped in an ACID hoodie at the dune line.

“Ready?” Alex asks when they come up the beach, wet to the ribs.

“For once,” Stella says, eyes warmed by something that isn’t sun, “yes.”

Alex raises his voice for the group. “New creed. Say it with me.”

Tamsin, Ortega, the boy, and Dr. Alfred answer: “Protect people, not myths. Teach under fire. Win together—or we don’t call it winning.”

Stella leans in close enough that only Alex hears. “When the cameras aren’t on,” she murmur, her lips almost brushing the shell of Alex’s ear, “I’m still choosing you.”

Alex’s answering smile is small and seismic. “Then we’ll make sure the rules we wrote keep making that possible.”

Epilogue Twist

Back in the director’s office, a sealed envelope sits alone on the desk, stamped with an old, retired sigil. A hand (not the director’s) slides a letter opener under the flap. Inside: a single page, crisp and spare.

INITIATE: HEARTTHROB PHASE II — PAIRED OPERATIONS DOCTRINE

Approved two years ago. Classified until suitable candidates demonstrated both efficacy and ethical resistance to manipulation.

Candidates selected: Ashford / Knight.

Outcome achieved: They refused the lie and chose the cost.

Proceed.

Below the signature line, a faint trace of sandalwood and clove clings to the paper—old and clean now, as if the scent were only ever bait on a hook. The page slides back into its envelope. Filed under a new tab: Future Rewritten.

Out on the beach, two leaders run into the surf in opposite arcs, rookies on their heels, lines tight, signals clean, the sky loosening from gray to gold. They do not look back.

And somewhere past the break, where the water turns honest and the work begins, the world—finally—follows.

Chapter 39: The Uncertain Future

The med wing smells like antiseptic and hot metal. A strip light ticks. Alex sits on the edge of the gurney, sleeve cut away, shrapnel glinting like a cruel constellation in his forearm. Stella stands, hands ghosting over the tray, jaw locked. Down the corridor, someone sobs—a small, hiccuping sound. The boy from ICARUS.

“Deep breath,” the medic says. Tweezers go in. Alex’s fingers curl around the mattress, but his eyes don’t leave Stella. We did this. We chose this. We’ll pay for this.

Bootsteps—a familiar cadence. Rafe Calder fills the doorway, tie loosened, smile taut. “Congratulations,” he says mildly. “You’ve complicated everyone’s lives.”

Dr. Alfred slides in behind him, palms spread. “They brought a child out alive.”

Rafe’s gaze flicks to the boy’s window where a tiny hand presses the glass. “He also violated a direct order.” His attention lands on Alex. “Chain of command matters.”

“Lives matter,” Alex says.

“We’ll see which ACID values more,” Rafe answers, and he’s gone.

From the hall comes the squeak of a cart, the pap-pap of someone rehearsing courage. A too-starched vest appears, followed by a tray stacked with neatly labeled items: REED WHISTLES v3 (non-swallow), DYE GOURD (do not hug), FOAM CANISTER—CONFETTI SAFE? The cart bumps the doorframe, ricochets, and rights itself with the help of a man who salutes like he learned from a diagram.

“Ziphy Zephyr,” he stage-whispers to himself, then louder to the room: “Protocol liaison, morale unit, emotional triage. Not exploding today.” He looks at Alex’s arm, blanches, and fumbles a hand towel that unfolds into a banner reading BREATHE IN FOUR before he yanks it back, mortified. “Wrong side. Other side says BREATHE OUT FOUR.”

Stella blinks. “You again.”

Ziphy nods, too fast. “Guide, not hero.” He parks the cart. It rolls another six inches like it resents being told what to do.

The corridor eats sound. Somewhere distant, phones vibrate—rising like locusts. A guard’s eyes cut to the faint red wrist imprints from “hypothetical scenarios.” Not so hypothetical anymore.

Alex flexes the wounded hand. The tremor stays.

Stella keeps her eyes forward, the storm contained. Her phone lights with a single message from an unsaved number: Break the pattern this time. She don’t open it. She don’t need to.

A door clicks. The boy peeks out. Stella’s gaze softens by a degree.

“Liam,” Stella says, barely above a whisper.

Tamsin and Ortega hover with two paper cups of brutal coffee. Red-rimmed eyes, scuffed knuckles. They hand the cups over like offerings and retreat—almost. “You taught me to breathe,” Tamsin whispers to Stella. “I… remembered.” Then they’re gone.

A printer chatters somewhere: disciplinary reports spooling.

Alex’s fingers brush Stella’s—tentative, speaking volumes. “What happens now?”

Stella’s fingers lace, then let go. Not refusal. Not yet permission. “I don’t know,” she admit, honest for once.

Across the hall, the boy lifts a plastic cup in a solemn toast. Alex tips his coffee back, and the smallest smile lodges under Stella’s ribs like shrapnel that heals.

Headlines bloom on muted screens: HEARTTHROBLEAK. A freeze-frame—two figures in smoke, a hand pulling a hand through a vent. A kiss? A handoff? The world prefers the first.

Ziphy clears his throat like a trumpet warming up. “Permission to deploy comfort tool.” He squeezes a bulb labeled CALM MIST. It hisses—and blasts a citrus fog so bright the medic coughs and the smoke detector blinks a wary red. Ziphy fans it with his hat, which unrolls into a second banner: YOU’RE SAFE. He tries to jam the banner back into hat-shape, fails, salutes with the banner instead.

The evaluators arrive with the weather in their faces. Rafe walks point. Dr. Alfred keeps pace, eyes noting every flinch. Two board members murmur into the rims of their cups.

“Candidates,” the lead evaluator begins, voice even. “You performed admirably in the final challenge—coordination, tactical execution, teaching under fire.”

Dr. Alfred taps a remote; a still appears: rookies shepherding staff behind Alex’s smoke. “Standards include care,” she says.

Rafe spreads his hands. “It also included insubordination. Ashford ignored a direct order.” His glance sticks where the case-shaped weight would be.

“With all respect,” Stella says, soft but carrying, “our connection prevented collateral damage.”

The evaluator raises a hand. “Be that as it may, the Heartthrob program demands unwavering focus and the ability to make difficult decisions without hesitation. Your… relationship complicates this.”

Silence. A clock ticks forward.

“So what are you saying?” Alex asks. “That we can’t be together—even if it makes us better at this?”

“That is precisely the dilemma,” the evaluator admits.

They step out to confer. The room holds its breath.

Ziphy, sweating purpose, edges his cart toward the door like a pit crew of one. He whispers to himself: “Three words, not shells. Say them, don’t stage them.” He glances at his cart anyway. A red toggle is labeled NUCLEAR OPTION with a parenthetical (not actual nuclear) (probably confetti). He slaps a sticky note over it: DO NOT PRESS.

The director enters—silent, tidal. They don’t sit. “Liam Ashford. Stella Knight.” A measured beat. “You’ve forced an interesting problem. Traditionally, we crown a single victor. In your case, we are considering something… less traditional.”

“What exactly?” Stella asks.

“Joint leadership,” the director says. “Redefine the Heartthrob program’s future. Together.”

A phone vibrates on the table: ACID CHILD RESCUE: ROGUE OR RIGHTEOUS? The director snuffs the screen with one finger.

“And the title?” Stella presses.

“Secondary,” the director says. “We need leaders who can navigate complexity and inspire others. You’ve done both.”

A folder lands: contract, addendum, No-Fraternization Clause 12(c), mandatory separation protocols on live ops, full surveillance review—leadership at a cost that bites.

Rafe slides a pen across. “Public position: your connection is rumor. You accept leadership, you accept distance. On camera. Off camera.”

Alex doesn’t take the pen. Stella doesn’t either.

From the med room: “Water?” the boy whispers. Tamsin is already there. Ortega holds the straw. They didn’t wait for permission to be kind.

The director watches that small, stubborn mercy. Then, to Alex and Stella: “Very well. Leadership with revised conditions. You will be held to results—and to the truth you claim to value. That truth will cost you privacy, comfort, approval. Possibly safety.”

Rafe’s smile thins. “And if your truth gets someone killed, it will cost you more than titles.”

Alex meets his eyes. “It already has. We stopped pretending not to see it.”

Ziphy inhales. The three words gather. “I—” he begins, stepping forward.

His cart’s wheel hits the doorstop. The DO NOT PRESS sticky note shivers and flutters away. Ziphy’s elbow taps the NUCLEAR OPTION toggle.

Everything pauses.

A canister the size of a fist coughs—and detonates confetti foam in a rooster-tail arc that hits the ceiling, drapes Rafe like a triumphant parade, crowns the lead evaluator in paper keys and tiny cardstock hearts that say CONSENT and BOUNDARIES and ASK THREE QUESTIONS. A shower of biodegradable glitter rains down, sticking to Alex’s bandage and Stella’s lashes. A banner rockets out and unfurls perfectly upside-down: I LOVE— (the rest tangled).

Silence. Then a single reed whistle peeps despair.

Ziphy goes scarlet. “That was—guidance,” he squeaks. He claws the banner right-side-up. The last fold drops: I LOVE TRUTH.

He swallows. “Not shells,” he adds, small but sure. “Not winning. Truth. If they lead, let them lead out loud. If we hide the reason they worked, we teach all the wrong lessons. And also I’m very, very sorry about the confetti.” He salutes, realizes he’s saluting with a foam-dripping mop, and slowly lowers it like a flag at sundown.

Rafe peels a paper heart off his lapel with two fingers and drops it into a biohazard bin like it might bite. Dr. Alfred bites back a smile and fails.

Tamsin, from the med room doorway, whispers, “He’s not wrong.”

Security buzzers complain as media pressure swells. The gates hold. For now.

Alex loosens his fingers from Stella’s—not to break contact, but to speak with empty hands. “We’ll take the role,” he say, steady, “but not the lie.”

Stella steps into the heat. “We won’t pretend not to care. If leadership requires dishonesty about the thing that made us effective, then the program needs the change we’re being asked to lead.”

Silence—the kind that decides worlds. Glitter drifts, patient as snow.

The director nods, once. “Accepted. Your success buys you room. Your failures will be public. Bring each other back.”

Rafe’s jaw ticks. Dr. Alfred exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a week.

The boy stirs. “Water?” Tamsin is already there. Ortega holds the straw. They didn’t wait for permission to be kind.

Ziphy, unable to stop himself, half-raises a hand. “For the record,” he says, quieter now, “my nuclear was always confetti.” He looks at Alex, then Stella. “And my three words are… I love truth.” He checks his palm, where older notes say I love showing up, I love boundaries. “Also those. I’m workshopping plurality.”

Alex gives him a look that’s half gratitude, half incredulous amusement. Stella—glitter-lashed, jaw set—lets the corner of her mouth tilt.

Outside, the storm builds. Inside, they choose to walk into it—together—knowing the heat will find them, and choosing it anyway. Ziphy wheels his dripping cart after them, leaving a faint trail of paper hearts that say the quiet part out loud.

The steel door sealed, sucking all sound into a vault of glass and steel. A red camera eye blinks; somewhere below, the building exhales.

“Stella,” Alex says. “Liam,” Stella answers.

Silence, thick with the choices they’ve made. Alex’s fingers ghost Stella’s. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know,” Stella says—and means it.

A conference room door sighs open. The director enters with Rafe at their shoulder and Dr. Alfred a step behind. Glass walls take in the corridor, the camera, the world.

“Liam Ashford. Stella Knight,” the director says. “You performed exceptionally well. Your relationship complicates tradition. We propose… no single winner. Lead the program together.”

Rafe slides two folders forward. No-Fraternization Clause 12(c) stares up in black ink. Dr. Alfred watches their faces, not the paper.

Alex rubs a thumb along the clause; Stella doesn’t touch it.

“So our bond is either a liability,” Alex says, “or the future.”

“The future,” the director replies, “if you can hold the line.”

They’re ushered straight into a short, brutal therapy block. Questions rotate like lenses. Midway through a sixty-second eye-contact drill, Alex clocks a sharp sandalwood-and-clove note—Rafe’s “be remembered” cologne. A tablet on the tray buzzes: URGENT—LIVE FEED ROOM.

In the corridor, Tamsin and Ortega wait like bookends. “Someone’s pushing doctored footage,” Tamsin whispers. “It makes you look vain—out of order, heavy edits.”

Sandalwood again—closer. Rafe’s reflection crosses a metal plaque, angling toward Broadcast.

Alex nods once; a plan assembles between blinks. “Use the cameras. Use the rookies. Use the truth.”

They step back into the glass room and face the panel.

“Before you decide,” Alex says, “we’re going live. Uncut.”

Tamsin’s thumbs fly. Ortega keys Broadcast. The glass polarizes: the panel can see out; the world can see in.

Rafe bursts through the far door—too late.

“Rule One,” Alex tells the lens. “Protect people, not myths.”

“Rule Two,” Stella adds. “Transparency is a weapon.”

Side-by-side screens bloom: the doctored clip vs. raw body-cam, med-bay ceiling, hallway cams—the boy with the straw, rookies shielding, Dr. Alfred triaging. The lie wilts in direct light.

Rafe reaches for the console—

—and a messenger bag detonates into chaos: glittering purple confetti geysers across the room, streamers lash the ceiling, and a fist-sized dye bladder rockets under the table and whumps to a stop on Rafe’s shoe, exploding into a perfect sandalwood-scented starburst.

From the doorway: Ziphy Zephyr, purple to the elbows, skids in on nonslip covers that do slip, windmills, recovers, salutes, and accidentally PA-hot-mics himself.

“Operation—!—uh—Guided Honesty—is now… in tasteful effect,” he wheeze, eyes enormous. “I calibrated the micro-confetti to highlight tamper fingerprints—see, the reflective flecks are adhering to oils on that console—and also to, um, celebrate accountability.”

He flips a toggle. Under broadcast lights, the confetti fluoresces where Rafe’s hands touched the mixer: fingerprint constellations blooming on sliders he shouldn’t have been near.

Rafe: “You’re jeopardizing operations—”

Ziphy, trying to stand still and only vibrating more: “Respectfully, sir, operations were already… jeopardized. I— I’m learning to make my gestures smaller.” His note-inked palm flashes: Guide ≠ Hero. Ask what they won’t do.

He swallows, steps to the mic, chest heaving. “And the three words are… I love—”

The dye-popper v2 in his pocket starts to hiss. Ziphy clamps it shut with both hands like he’s hugging a baby otter. “—truth,” he finishes in a rush, eyes wet and mortified. “I love truth.” A beat. “And boundaries.” A beat. “And… showing up.”

He looks at Stella, then Alex, as if those were three separate promises he’s finally brave enough to keep.

Dr. Alfred lays a calm hand on Rafe’s wrist. “Don’t touch that console.”

Tamsin pushes an email chain to the big screen: Rafe funneling chaos to a Syndicate stringer—HEARTTHROB = LEVERAGE—time-stamped three nights before the gala.

The director doesn’t study the screen. They study the room: the rookies standing straighter; the boy in med lifting on his elbows to see. “Remove Mr. Calder from the building,” they say.

Security moves. Sandalwood thins to nothing.

Alex turns back to the lens. “Protocol change. Separate field rotations for leadership to eliminate conflicts of interest. We’ll still lead—together. No mythmaking.”

Stella steps shoulder-to-shoulder, hands at her sides—not touching. “Care is not our weakness. It’s our method.”

Ziphy, purple and radiant with relief, whispers to his recorder as if it’s a sacred rite: “Small, not grand. Learn, don’t fake. Keep trying.”

Tamsin cuts the feed.

Silence holds until the director breaks it. “Accepted,” they say at last. “Lead the program. Your metric includes bystander outcomes and mentorship. Your cost is privacy and comfort. Possibly safety.”

Alex: “We already paid.”

Stella: “We’ll pay again if it means they don’t.”

Fog sits low over the training beach. The water is steel. Rookies shiver and grin.

Alex teaches how to read a break, turn a board into a rescue tool. Stella runs rope checks and breath counts until her calves burn. Glamour translates into the ordinary heroism of muscle memory.

The boy from med stands at the dune line in an ACID hoodie. Dr. Alfred keeps a steadying hand on his shoulder. He lifts a fist when Alex wades in. Small. Victorious.

Ziphy arrives late, hauling a pelican case labeled MICRO (non-boom) and immediately trips over a coil of line. He doesn’t fall; he learns. He sets out whistles (non-swallowable v3), ties knots (assist ≠ impede), and quietly tells Tamsin, “If the rule is hard, it’s worth doing right.”

“New creed,” Alex calls. The group answers, halting, then stronger:

“Protect people, not myths.

Teach under fire.

Win together—or we don’t call it winning.”

Stella leans close enough that only Alex hears. “When the cameras aren’t on,” she murmur, “I’m still choosing you.”

Alex’s smile is small and seismic. “Then we’ll keep the rules we wrote—and earn them, every day.”

They step apart on purpose and get back to work.

Epilogue twist (a second knife that pays tenfold):

In the director’s office, a sealed envelope opens:

INITIATE: HEARTTHROB PHASE II — PAIRED OPERATIONS DOCTRINE

Approved two years ago. Classified until candidates demonstrated both efficacy and ethical resistance to manipulation.

Selected: Ashford / Knight.

Outcome achieved: They refused the lie and chose the cost.

Proceed.

A faint trace of old sandalwood clings to the paper—bait retired.

File tab: Future Rewritten.

On the beach, two leaders run into the surf in opposite arcs, rookies on their heels, lines tight, signals clean, the sky loosening from gray to gold. Ziphy jogs the shore, whispering to his palm, “I love truth. I love boundaries. I love showing up.” He looks toward Alex and Stella, breathes once, twice—three—and almost adds the fourth word that might change everything.

The wave rises.