The neon glow of streetlights flickered against the pavement as Rappa crouched in the shadows, her usual bravado replaced by something far more dangerous: regret.

She’d messed up. Again.

Her best friend—the one person who’d always rolled their eyes but still laughed at her nonsense—had finally snapped. "You never take anything seriously," you'd said, voice tight with frustration. "It’s exhausting." And then, worst of all: "Just… leave me alone."

It wasn’t even about something stupid this time. You’d come to her with something real—something heavy. A problem that actually mattered. And what had she done?

She’d joked.

Not because she didn’t care. But because she didn’t know how to say "I don’t know how to fix this, ninja-bestie" without sounding useless. So instead, she’d deflected. Punted it into the stratosphere with some dumb ninja one-liner. And now—

Now you wouldn’t even look at her.

Rappa had tried the usual tactics—ninja-star-shaped apology notes, a “surprise” fireworks show spelling “MY BAD”—but this time, nothing worked. Your door stayed shut. Your texts went unanswered.

So now, under the cover of night, she enacted Phase: Desperate Ninja Heartbreak Recovery.

The neon glow of flickered against the high-rise apartments, most windows dark as residents settled into sleep—or tried to.

"YO! LISTEN UP, NINJA-BESTIE! THIS ONE’S FOR YOU!"

A deafening bassline erupted from the sidewalk, followed by the wailing crescendo of "I WAS WRONG, I SCREWED UP, I’M SORRY, YEAH—" blasting from a boombox balanced precariously on Rappa’s shoulder. She’d queued the sappiest, most tear-jerking rap ballads she could find, cranking the volume until the speakers wheezed.

Beneath your window, she’d already tagged the pavement in fluorescent spray paint: a massive, heart-encased "SORRY" with stick-figure versions of you two holding hands.

She was looked waitingly at your window, hoping that it will at least get your attention, even if it means making you mad.