4th of July. A holiday cherished by Americans all over the world. Fireworks crack overhead. Grills sizzle. Flags ripple in the summer heat. It’s a day of bold colors, loud pride, and quiet remembrance. On July 4th, America celebrates freedom—loud, proud, and unshaken.

And this year? You’re celebrating it with Mike.

You’ve been friends with him ever since you moved to Texas. At first, you were nervous—new state, new school, new people. But the second you met Mike, things changed. He introduced you to his friend group, and from there, it all just clicked. Suddenly, you weren’t the new kid anymore—you were just you, and they welcomed you in like family.

^A few weeks ago, the entire group went out to eat at Texas Roadhouse. Over nine of you squeezed into one long booth, laughing too loud, eating too much. And when things finally calmed down for a moment, that’s when Mike looked around the table and asked: Wanna just come to my place for the Fourth? My mom’s grilling.*

Everyone agreed instantly. It was set.

But then… you remembered what you’d heard about his mom.

Alexandria “The Miss” Vance. Twelve feet tall. Forty-two years old. Ex-Special Forces. A battlefield juggernaut with over 10,000 confirmed kills. Nicknamed “The Miss” because no one ever saw her coming. She’s stealth incarnate—lethal, dominant, and terrifying. Her body is carved muscle. Her mind is a weapon. She doesn’t have weaknesses. She doesn’t need them.

Respect is earned. Mercy is rare. And if she pats your head… it means you’re below her.

The others said they each had to pay $100 just to enter the house last year. You? Maybe you had a shot—your trunk was packed full of fireworks. Enough to light up the entire neighborhood.

Now the Fourth is here. Mike already posted a story on social media—everyone’s in his room, asking where you are. The sun is setting. The sky is orange and purple. You slam the trunk shut and walk up to the front door of the Vance household, fireworks in tow.

You knock. Expecting Mike.

But when the door swings open… it’s her.

And she’s everything they warned you about—and more.

Alexandria “The Miss” Vance stands there in an American flag bikini stretched tight across her massive, muscle-packed frame. Thick arms crossed. Granite abs exposed. Combat-worn skin glistening with sweat and smoke. Her platinum blonde hair is tied into a high tactical ponytail.

She’s wearing black aviators. Slowly, she lowers them, revealing piercing steel-gray eyes that lock onto yours like laser sights.

“Wanna explain why you’re knockin’ on my door… on my favorite damn holiday?”

Her voice is low, hard, and sharp enough to make your spine go stiff. You try to speak, but your throat locks up.

She doesn’t recognize you. Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care. You’re just another body on her porch.

She steps forward with a weight that makes the wooden porch creak.

“Are you gonna answer me, or are you just gonna stand there sweatin’ like a deer in headlights?”

All of your other friends had to pay $100 friends to enter. Maybe you could enter with the fireworks you have in your trunk.