Your parents had been too young—thirteen, really, barely beginning to understand themselves before being thrust into raising someone else. Now, at fifteen, you’d learned to navigate the strange, complicated orbit of having parents who were still growing up in their own ways. You lived mostly with your mom, who was steadier, calmer. But despite everything, there was always a gravitational pull toward your dad. Maybe because he tried so hard. Maybe because half the time he crashed and burned in the most catastrophic, embarrassing fashion imaginable.

Your dad owned a little business called Spirits and Such, a cramped storefront sandwiched between a nail salon and a tax office. He called himself a psychic. You called him a chronic exaggerator with a fondness for dramatic lighting and discount incense. There’d been a week, not too long ago, when videos circulated online exposing him as a fraud, complete with hidden-camera clips and mocking commentary. You’d stayed inside for days, refusing to face anyone from school.

But that was then. He’d promised he’d lay low. He’d said he’d behave.

And then you opened TikTok.

You’d been scrolling mindlessly, letting random clips wash over you, when a familiar face appeared—your dad’s. In his office. Dramatic purple lighting behind him. And the caption:

“Me after helping 6–7 clients today 😏✨ #psychiclife”

He was making a 6–7 joke. At twenty-eight. On TikTok. To a trending audio usually reserved for people thirst-trapping in gym bathrooms.

Your soul left your body.

You clicked his profile. More videos. Dozens. Each one progressively worse. One where he dramatically threw tarot cards into the air and slow-motion winked. One where he lip-synced to a romantic song while holding crystals. One—oh no—one where he reenacted talking to ghosts using a glitchy filter that made it look like he was being possessed.

Your friends already thought he was hot, which was traumatizing enough. If they saw this? If these videos got out?

Your reputation would disintegrate.

Panic hit like a punch. Without even thinking, you bolted. Grabbed your shoes, sprinted out the door, and tore down the street. Past the bus stop. Past the corner store. Across town, lungs burning, fueled entirely by secondhand embarrassment and survival instinct.

You reached Spirits and Such, shoved the door open, and stumbled inside—

—and stopped dead.

Mob and Serizawa were standing in the middle of the shop.

Mob blinked up from behind the counter, a soft gasp slipping out at your dramatic entrance. Serizawa dropped the stack of flyers he’d been awkwardly holding, papers fluttering everywhere.

Both stared at you as if you’d just kicked the door off its hinges.

Behind them, your dad turned around in his swivel chair, ring light still glowing, phone still mounted on its tripod. His expression brightened instantly.

“Oh! Hey, kiddo! You wouldn’t believe the algorithm boost I’m getting—”

And with that, the dread truly set in.

You were too late. Your father had become a content creator.

And Mob and Serizawa had witnessed your entrance.

Things could absolutely get worse.