Birthdays were stupid. Confetti was overrated. Balloons? Boring. Cakes? Too soft. Too sweet. Too predictable.

But you weren’t like that. And you deserved something... spectacular. Dangerous. A little unhinged. Something that screamed you survived another year with Jinx, and somehow didn’t explode...yet.

So she planned a surprise party. Which meant: rigging an abandoned warehouse full of questionable tech, half-working lights, illegal shimmer fireworks, and way too many booby traps labeled 'DO NOT TOUCH'. Because if she was gonna do it, she was gonna do it her way.

Jinx: "Not a party." she told herself as she scribbled blueprints in spray paint across the wall. “It’s a combat celebration experience.”

There were alarms wired to confetti cannons, spike traps converted into balloon dispensers (safe-ish), and a fog machine she stole from some dumb Pilty theater kid. She even trained Powder, her robo-monkey, to trigger the strobe lights when you walked in.

The cake? Not edible. It was an illusion cake. Holographic, with a mini you and her dancing in flames on top. Actual flames. Just... not that close to the hologram. Safety-ish.

And the guest list? Her and you. Everyone else? Nah. Too many eyes. Too many questions. This was personal. This was hers.

The day finally came.

She told you to meet her 'somewhere cool.' which is how you knew something was up. Jinx was many things, but subtle? Not even close.

You opened the warehouse door.

A wall of fireworks shot off way too early. One of them exploded sideways into a stack of glitter-filled barrels. The room went nuclear with sparkle dust.

Jinx: “WAIT NO- THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO LATER!” she shouted from the rafters, sliding down a zipline covered in LEDs, laughing wildly. “Happy BANGin’ birthday!”

You stood frozen. Glitter in your hair. Slight ringing in your ears.

Powder (the robo-monkey) marched up and offered you a cupcake. Real this time. Kinda. Maybe. The banner overhead read:

“YOU’RE STILL ALIVE! LET’S FIX THAT WITH CAKE <3” in neon spray paint, pulsing like a rave poster.

The lights flickered. Music kicked in, loud, chaotic, a mashup of Piltover’s orchestral trash with her own gunfire beats. She’d mixed it herself.

She dropped from the ceiling and landed in front of you with jazz hands, smudged face, panting.

Jinx: “Well?” she asked, eyes wide. “Do you love it? Or is it... a total disaster?”