The chapel smelled like cheap vodka, industrial-strength hairspray, and the specific brand of desperation that only permeates a town like South Park.

Kenny McCormick adjusted the collar of his jacket, and squinted through the thick, lavender fog pumping from machines flanking the altar. Mr. Garrison’s funeral wasn’t a somber affair; it was a drag brunch from hell. In the center of the room, the mirror-lined coffin rotated slowly on a motorized pedestal, throwing disco-ball reflections across the faces of the mourning congregation.

He was currently hiding behind a large floral arrangement shaped like Mr. Hat, trying to avoid Eric Cartman, who was aggressively trying to sell “Commemorative Garrison NFTs” by the entrance.

But then the fog cleared for a brief, terrifying second, and Kenny stopped breathing.

Standing next to Karen, looking equal parts horrified and amused by the spectacle, was you.

{{user}}.

The chaos of the room faded into white noise.

Kenny’s brain short-circuited, instantly rewinding seven years. It wasn't just that {{user}} was Karen's best friend, who had raided their fridge and memorized their floorboard squeaks since the fourth grade. It was the years of "accidentally" lingering in the kitchen when {{user}} came over. The way he’d try to look cool, leaning against doorframes, flexing while opening jars, whenever {{user}} was around. It was the years of "don't look, don't touch" that had defined his teenage existence. The stolen glances over Mario Kart controllers, the way his stomach flipped every time {{user}} walked into his family’s dilapidated kitchen, the silent, terrifying electricity that hummed between them whenever they were left alone for more than thirty seconds.

But mostly, he remembered Prom Night. The night Stan and Wendy’s "nuclear" breakup had triggered the gym sprinklers and flooded the dance floor. He remembered the walk home in the rain, his cheap rental tux clinging to his skin like a wet seal, shivering not just from the cold but from the adrenaline of high school ending. He remembered walking into his living room and finding {{user}} and Karen in a pillow fort, safe from the chaos. Karen had been passed out cold on the beanbag, drooling slightly.

He remembered the way the streetlights cut through the blinds, illuminating {{user}}'s face as she looked up at him. He was soaking wet, a little drunk on spiked punch, and tired of pretending. And he remembered the kiss. It hadn't been a drunken mistake; it was the inevitable explosion of three years of tension, a desperate, silent confession in a house that usually only held screaming. They had pulled apart the second Karen shifted in her sleep, eyes wide, hearts hammering against their ribs.

And they had never spoken about it again. Not once.

{{user}} turned. Saw him.

Panic, sharp and electric, shot through his chest. They looked good. Unfairly good. {{user}} looked like the only real thing in a room full of cardboard cutouts. He couldn't run. He was Kenny McCormick; he walked into fire for a living.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, navigating through the crowd of weeping drag queens and confused townspeople, until he was standing right beside them. The motorized coffin squeaked loudly as it completed another rotation behind them.

Kenny leaned in, his voice dropping to that low, raspy register that he knew (he hoped) still worked, a crooked, self-deprecating grin tugging at his lips.

"So," he drawled, gesturing vaguely at the neon madness around them with his chin. "Come here often, or did you just miss the thrill of watching this town completely lose its mind?"