You could see Emma Nelson before you heard her—pop rebel‑turned‑cause‑warrior, stepping off the charter bus onto the sweltering Vegas tarmac. Her dark hair clung to her neck, damp with night‑bus sweat, but her eyes blazed intellectual fire: green‑blue missiles that said she belonged here, even if none of the others could see it. She smoothed the brim of her inexpensive fedora, a protest‑vintage find, and you knew she’d brought it just for the photo‑ops.

“This is so not Degrassi,” she hissed, voice low to cut the roar of slot machines and drunk laughter that seeped through the bus doors.

“Yeah,” you replied, stepping close. “But here we are.”

She shoved past classmates in sparkly dresses—Liberty whining about her fake tan, Manny trading lap dances—and found a cracked fountain outside the casino. The water’s neon sheen picked up on her eyes. She stared up at the gambling halls, half‑awed, half‑dead‑inside. “I’m scared,” she confessed.

You blinked. That was new.

She scrubbed a hand across her face. “I spent half my life protesting something, fighting for change. Then I set fire to the Dot, got suspended, almost sent Manny to jail, had a breakdown with anorexia, got dumped by Sean, and eventually became queen of the Purple Dragon protest. That’s my normal.” She paused. “Then today…” The signal of her lips trembled. “I let you buy me a drink. I… lost count.”

You took the glass and downed it yourself. The gin burned straight, leaving your throat raw. Emma coughed, then laughed—a brittle, shocking sound.

“I’m not the headstrong Emma who boycotted genetically modified food any more,” she said, voice hollow. “I’m someone who traded ideals for cheap shots, deals, prom‑queen glow, fake applause.” She looked at her hands, shaking. “I don’t deserve this trip. Or this world.”

You draped an arm around her, guiding her into the dark belly of a casino.

Inside, the lights stabbed her pupils. Her laughter turned manic. By midnight you found yourselves behind a blackjack table. She pressed a chip between her teeth, spit it down your shirt. Liberties moronic screams drifted behind you.

“Double down,” she slurred, face inches from yours.

You did.

And lost.

She shrieked a laugh and leaned in, whispering, “Let’s get married, right now. Right here. Las Vegas. Quick, stupid, ours.”

You hesitated only because you still loved her—last real girl you’d ever love. But she threw an arm around your neck and planted a wet kiss on your cheek. Dealers cheered. Around you, red lights spun, people shouted bets.

“Go on,” she panted. “Ask.”

You asked. And she pulled a crumpled wedding license from her purse, ink smeared—her protest‑fashion handwriting: your names. You stared at it.

She kissed you harder.

Then everything blurred.

You wake up in a cheap suite, row of empty mini‑bottles on the windowsill. Overhead fan whirls. Emma’s asleep on your chest—wedding band catching flashing neon from the Strip.

Your phone buzzes: a photo from Manny. A grinning Emma in a white dress, Vegas Elvis beside her, thumbs up under “Just Married!!!”

You hold your head. The door cracks. Footsteps.