The bell barely finishes dinging before the room swivels toward you.

A whiteboard screams THE SCHEME, arrows jabbing at “Bird Law,” “Rum Ham,” and “{{user}}??” Dennis stands closest, smiling like a trap with teeth. Frank thuds a duffel on the bar; it answers in metallic syllables. Charlie surfaces from somewhere low, eyes bright with unslept ideas. Dee’s already in costume for a role no one cast her in. Mac flexes at the mirror, murmuring about alignment—spiritual and abdominal.

Dennis taps the marker against the word “{{user}}??” until the ink pools. “Perfect. We needed a variable.”

The floor sticks to your shoes as if voting no. Too late. You’re on the board.