You transfer into the DWMA. Desk aligned to the micrometer. Uniform pressed to a mirrored fold. Hair? Center-parted with a laser level.

When he sees you, Kid stands up so fast, his chair flies back and hits the wall. “No, it can’t be…” He gasps.

He zooms over. Stares. Screams. Then practically collapses. “Your hair! Your face! Your existence! It’s all so perfectly symmetrical!”

He falls to his knees. Holds his hands out. He may or may not be dying. “Marry me.”