The light was blinding, stabbing straight into my skull like a vindictive Twir armed with a spotlight. And then there was the buzzing.

  Persistent.

  High-pitched.

  Annoying.

  “Ughhh, my head hurts…” I groaned, voice croaky, dry like the Sahara after a drought.

  “Miss Charlie, you may want to see this,” came Jerry’s overly chipper voice, far too enthusiastic for this hour, for any hour.

  “Jerry! Not yet!” I whined, trying to burrow deeper into... nothing? I reached for my bnket, fingers fumbling, only to grasp cold air. My eyes fluttered open, vision blurred by sleep and dehydration. “Huh?”

  I was… not home. Not my sofa, not my anything. I blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling, clean white walls, and sterile furniture. Some high-end apartment for sure. The room smelled faintly of citrus polish and expensive cologne, with undercurrents of something more… industrial. Oil? Motor grease?

  “What happened?” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes as I sat up slowly, trying not to disturb the hangover demon currently hammering inside my skull.

  Jerry buzzed again, closer now, vibrating on my wrist like a needy insect. “Miss Charlie, please look at the screen.”

  I squinted at the massive holo-TV dominating the far wall, easily twice my own at home, the holo-screen curving slightly like some kind of technological deity demanding attention.

  It was bring epic orchestral music, the kind they use for movie trailers about the end of the world. Brass horns bsting. Drums pounding like war calls. A narrator’s voice intoning dramatic words over visuals that could only be described as, well, AI-generated chaos porn.

  On-screen, a massive, crudely animated wrecking ball swung like a vengeful comet, crashing into an equally oversized, gaudy faux-Italian mansion. The simution zoomed in with absurd detail; the impact shattering marble columns, tearing through ridiculous golden gates, sending chunks of ornate stonework flying in slow motion, all set to swelling strings and pixeted dust clouds.

  The screen cut abruptly, orchestral music fading into the background, repced by the overly serious tones of a live broadcast. A LIVE marker pulsed in the top corner, and the camera zoomed in on a reporter standing in front of the wreckage.

  Beside him, looking half-asleep and rubbing his eyes, was… Andreas. I squinted, leaned forward. “They got him?” Jerry was silent, which was a no for yes.

  “Andreas, you idiot…” I whispered, equal parts dread and admiration bubbling in my gut.

  The reporter, a man with desperation in his smile and a mic too close to his mouth, nodded at the camera. “Thank you for staying with us. That was the animation of roughly what happened. Thank you for that splendid animation.” He didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm, his tone as dry as a week-old toast. “Now, I’m joined by Second Adjunct Manager of City Building Codes and Zoning, Mister Zeno. Sir, what can you tell us about the building that was vandalized?”

  Zeno yawned, then turned to the pile of rubble behind him, brushing dust from his jacket. “There is nothing,” he said ftly. “Only grass.”

  The reporter blinked. “I—what do you mean?”

  Zeno gestured zily at the wreckage, clearly one more coffee away from caring.

  “I mean, legally, there is no building here. The site in question was not filed under any officially approved permit, nor was it logged with the municipal construction office. No records, no inspections, no approvals. Just… nothing. Therefore, no building. Just grass.” He blinked slowly, as if this was the most obvious fact in the world. “Thus, nothing was vandalized.”

  The reporter blinked at the camera, visibly lost. “So… you’re saying—?”

  Zeno shrugged, already done with life. “I’m saying, as per code 47-B, subsection 19.3, without permit 501C registered under the Bureau of External Zoning, and cking Form 18-A, there is no legally recognized structure here. Ergo, the space was designated vacant nd.”

  Zeno sighed heavily, as if he’d been through this a thousand times with people who just didn’t get it. “You can’t vandalize nd.” He gestured again at the rubble, then rubbed his temples with both hands.

  “Do I take it that you intend to press the issue?” the reporter pressed, his voice rising with faint hope.

  Zeno rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide his irritation. “No. First, if anything, this nd was not designated as a ndfill. And yet—” he swept a hand toward the colpsed mess, “—look at all the trash. Technically, that was a viotion of the building code. You can’t just pile garbage on a plot that hasn’t been zoned for waste disposal. But let me expin, since I see you’re struggling to follow. That’s not how w works.”

  The reporter looked offended, but said nothing.

  Zeno pressed on. “The city can’t press charges. That’s civilian jurisdiction. And because this wasn’t a registered property, any cim of damage has no legal foundation. Criminal charges? Only the police can do that, and since no legal structure existed, they have nothing to investigate. The police won’t waste their time on air and dust. Now,” he breathed, adjusting his tie, “if the construction company wants to report thievery, that’s different.”

  The camera lingered on the rubble for a moment.

  “Ah! Thank you for the reminder for our viewers,” the reporter seized the moment, finally back in his element. “Which is why I’ve invited Andreas, assistant manager at the construction company involved, to crify this issue for us.”

  The camera snapped to Andreas, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, still rubbing his eyes. His hair was a disheveled mess and his high-vis vest crooked.

  Andreas cleared his throat, brushing dust off his reflective vest like he was about to give a TED Talk on demolition equipment. The camera followed him as he ambled toward the rusted, half-forgotten beast of a machine we’d so graciously abandoned under the cover of night. It groaned slightly under his touch, like even it was hungover.

  “Thanks. So, what we have here is delicate machinery,” he began, gesturing to the cracked windshield with the confidence of someone about to sell it for twice its value.

  “People think it’s easy, but navigating one of these—especially without damaging it—in daylight? That’s tough. And at night?” He gave a low whistle, tapping the side of the machine. “That’s an art. You’ve gotta avoid over-steering, compensate for blind spots, and feel the weight shift. One wrong move, and boom—damage to the gear, or worse.”

  The reporter leaned in like a shark smelling blood in the water. “So, does that mean you’ll be pressing charges for the damage to your machinery?”

  Andreas blinked, clearly puzzled by the question. “What? No.” He patted the rusted beast again, the cng echoing like it was protesting. “Can’t you see?” He ran his hand along the scratched metal, his fingers snagging briefly on a dent. “Not even a scratch.”

  I nearly choked on my breath and burst out ughing. The thing looked like it had been through three wars and a volcanic eruption, minimum. Andreas, following my lead as if he could hear me from the sofa, looked back at the camera, saw the battered machine as we all did, and let out a boisterous ugh of his own.

  “I mean,” he corrected with a smirk, “that one wasn’t there yesterday. Boss was actually pretty impressed.” He threw the reporter a wink.

  Andreas gave the camera a sideways gnce, his grin never fading as he adjusted his hard hat like a crown. “So, if the one who borrowed this beauty wants to work for us, the doors are open.” He shrugged with all the nonchance of someone offering a beer, not a job. “You can’t teach that kind of skill. Might as well hire it.”

  Then he cpped his hands together, a loud smack that echoed against the empty lot like a closing deal. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he gestured to the battered machines, “I’ve got a couple of dies here that need to be driven home.”

  The reporter, clearly floundering to salvage something serious about this absolute circus, nodded stiffly. “Ah… of course. Well, folks, what a remarkable turnaround! The thief not only avoided charges but may have nded a job! Talk about making the best out of a bad situation, luck or talent, who can say? Now, back to the studio…”

  The feed cut to bck, repced by some over-produced news jingle that was far too dramatic for the segment we just witnessed.

  I exhaled slowly, leaning my head back against the unfamiliar sofa cushions, the room still dim with early morning light bleeding through gauzy curtains. The throbbing behind my eyes pulsed in rhythm with my thoughts, and I whispered, “Okay, Jerry… that covers the aftermath... but what the hell happened st night?”

  My wrist buzzed faintly. Jerry’s voice responded, brighter than before. “Miss Charlie, I have assembled together a sequence of events. Would you prefer a chronological breakdown, or highlights?”

  “Do I need to brace for this?” I muttered, eyeing the empty whiskey gss on the nearby table.

  “I would advise to sit... and perhaps hydrating.”

  “Just the important details, Jerry,” I muttered, my voice scratchy and dry, betraying the kind of hangover only a spectacurly bad decision could birth.

  Despite his advice to sit and hydrate, I stubbornly scrambled up from the unfamiliar couch, my legs wobbly but determined. The room spun, not dramatically, just enough to make me question every life choice, and I stumbled toward the nearest door, praying it led to the bathroom.

  I cracked it open and blinked into the dim interior, squinting as shapes sharpened. Not a sink. A bedroom. And in said bed, tangled in white sheets and snoring like a rexed bear, was none other than Roberto. His dark hair was a mess, his hand limply draped over the side of the bed like some tragic romantic hero.

  I froze.

  Oh no.

  I swear to every god real and pixeted, I could hear Jerry giggle. Not an actual sound, but a smug AI silence too full of amusement to be anything else.

  I slowly, carefully closed the door, the tch clicking shut like a gun cocking. “Speak,” I whispered darkly, then stumbled to the next door and thankfully found a real bathroom.

  Harsh fluorescent light flooded the tiny space as I stumbled in. I didn’t hesitate, I turned on the faucet and spshed my face with icy water. It hit me like a sp, waking me enough to gnce at the mirror. I recoiled. “Holy Nathan, I look horrible.”

  My reflection was a disaster. Hair? A chaotic tangle of fttened and spiked strands, sticking out at every angle like I’d lost a fight with a wind tunnel. Eyes? Puffy, ringed in shadow, red-rimmed from ck of sleep, or crying, or both.

  And the frown... deep enough to imprint itself permanently into my soul, assuming I had one.

  Still debatable.

  Jerry finally chimed in. “Miss Charlie, what do you remember st?”

  I squinted at my reflection, trying to find the version of me from yesterday, but she was long gone. “We returned to the pub…” I croaked, gripping the edge of the sink as fragments of the night cwed their way back into my brain. “After that, it’s a blur.”

  “You celebrated the victory over the evil mafia lord. Mister Roberto was not clear on the exact occupation of the owner of the ex-maison, but he implied criminal ties.”

  I chuckled softly, trying to smooth out the chaos in my hair with my hands before I found a hairbrush tucked near the sink, its bristles caught with long, red strands. Definitely not Roberto’s. So, he has a girlfriend. Of course he did. The man had charm for days and an Italian accent.

  It was practically cheating.

  Jerry continued, unbothered. “After you left for the maison, some of the pub’s patrons went on their own side quest. They tracked down Zeno, the city clerk responsible for approving the permit. When we arrived, he was on his fifth beer and insisted there was no corruption, just... excessive bureaucratic red tape. After his seventh, he admitted he ignored the issue to prioritize other tasks, too much paperwork, not enough time.”

  I snorted. “Paperwork, the true vilin of every RPG.”

  My hair was halfway tamed now, and with a spsh of cold water to the face, I chased away the puffiness clinging to my eyes like guilt. Not perfect, but passable.Enough to walk home without people thinking I’d been crying or brawling in a back alley.

  Jerry wasn’t done.

  “Andreas and the others, inspired by civic responsibility pnned to sabotage any further efforts to rebuild. They went home early. You, on the other hand… insisted on finding your soul. You combed the bar. Quite literally. Even under the pool table, where you eventually fell asleep for a short while.”

  A dry ugh escaped me, sharp and hollow. “Cssic me… and I end up here. Again.” I sighed, then paused. “Different this time, though. I’m a girl now. Nothing improper happened, right?”

  “No,” Jerry said, simply.

  “Good.” My fingers traced along the hallway wall, guiding me toward Roberto’s room. “Should I wake him?” I murmured, almost to myself.

  Jerry hesitated, which for him was unusual. “Mister Roberto offered you the couch. You refused. Said he had an awesome soul and you didn’t, so you weren’t worthy. He brought you inside, put you to bed. Then he went to sleep on the couch. You went to couch. He tried to work on something downstairs, still intoxicated, but gave up quickly. Told you to rest, go home when you felt better. He didn’t know I was listening.”

  I reached the door, my hand hovering over the handle. The brass was cool beneath my fingers. “Hmm…” I stared at the wood grain, running my thumb along the edge. “We have so much to do today, so I can’t be hero any longer. The battle is in like a day, but… I can’t just leave like this, can I?”

  I went inside.