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I close my eyes for half a second, long enough to recalibrate my sense of reality. When I open them, they’re still frozen like two idiots mid-scene, both of them waiting for my grand reaction. My deadpan is a skill honed from years of being the only sane person in a room full of feral energy.

I nod slowly. “You’re both banned from caffeine. Effective immediately.”

Silas gasps, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”

Luna steps forward, eyes gleaming, that troublemaker smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Youloveit.”

I should walk past them. Be the adult. But instead, I take two slow steps forward, raise one finger, and poke Silas in the forehead.

“Tag,” I say, “you’re stupid.”

He wails like he’s been mortally wounded and collapses against Luna’s shoulder. She holds him up while laughing, and it’s that sound—hers—that ruins me.

I look away again before it can crack deeper.

Ambrose’s shadow looms in the next corridor, Caspian still walks like something’s chasing him in his own skull, and Riven’s already ahead, pressing his hand against the warded door like he’s daring it to open or fight back.

But here, in this second, with Silas being a dumbass and Luna looking at me like I hung the moon crooked on purpose... it feelsalive. Real. Like the world hasn’t crumbled just yet.

Silas is crouched like a gremlin in the center of the hallway, eyes locked on Caspian with the feral energy of someone who hasn’t slept and probably shouldn’t be trusted with sharp objects. He’s whispering—well, “psst”-ing with all the subtlety of a dying raccoon—as he waves his hands like he’s guiding a goddamn airstrike.

“Caspian,” he hisses. “Cass.Casspapi. Come on, man. For the drama.”

Caspian doesn’t move. He just stands there with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly elegant way that says *I’ve survived horrors you can’t imagine, and now I have to deal withthis. He shifts his gaze to me for a moment, a silent plea that saysdo something.

I don’t. Because I’m the kind of friend whowatches the world burn and hands out marshmallows.

Silas is now on his knees.Literallyon his knees, hands clasped, begging like Cass is the high priest of cool and he’s here to offer up his soul in exchange for one single barrel roll.

“Please,” Silas whispers. “Do it for the gods. Do it for your ass. Do it forme.”

Cass closes his eyes, exhales slowly through his nose like he’s meditating through trauma. Then he groans. Loudly. Like his soul is being peeled from his bones. He glances over his shoulder once, mutters something under his breath—probably a prayer or a death wish—and then drops to the floor.

The roll is… beautiful. Fluid. Graceful. Somehowsexy, which is the most Caspian thing ever. Even his barrel rolls have sex appeal.

Silas gasps like it’s Christmas and his birthday and maybe the end of the world all rolled into one. “Yes!That’s what I’m talking about!That’s the kind of commitment I need in this team!”

I clap. Slowly. Deadpan.

Cass rises to his feet like a man who’s just committed a crime against his own dignity, brushing dust off his sleeves without meeting anyone’s eyes. “I hate myself,” he says.

“You should,” I reply. “But that roll? Ten out of ten. Would watch again.”

Luna’s laughing—quiet but sharp. It cuts under my skin, in a good way. She’s biting her bottom lip to keep it in, watching the chaos unfold with that particular brand of fond exasperation she reserves just for us. For this.

Even Riven, who's still analyzing the door like he’s preparing to dismantle it atom by atom, pauses to glance over with a look that saysWhat the actual fuck is wrong with you all?before returning to the ward. Ambrose doesn’t even bother acknowledging it. He’s leaning against the wall like a bored prince waiting for the world to catch up, but I see it—the flicker of his lips, the amusement he pretends not to feel.

Silas spins toward Luna, arms raised like he’s announcing the second coming. “Your team isready, Captain Hotpants.”

Luna rolls her eyes. “If you barrel roll through the door, I’m leaving you in whatever magical trap it sets off.”

Silas bows with dramatic flair. “Worth it.”

I just keep walking, hands in my pockets, grin ghosting on my face. Because I’m not saying it—but yeah. This? This is how I survive the madness. One dumbass barrel roll at a time.

Blackwell’s office was supposed to be warded like the jaws of hell. Traps. Curses. Alarms that screamed bloody murder in fourteen different languages. That’s what I was promised when Ambrose pitched this little midnight field trip. What I got instead? A cracked door, half-lit hallways, and a creeping disappointment that’s beginning to gnaw at the edges of my mood like a feral rat with commitment issues.

Riven gestures us forward with two fingers, sharp and silent, like he’s still expecting a blast of defensive magic to rip his arm off. His power’s humming—low and restless—but the wards haven’t so much as hissed at us. We slip through the chapel corridor one by one, all dramatic and ready for chaos, and the damn place is... quiet.