Ez's bathroom mirror reflects forty-seven minutes of catastrophic decision-making. The eyeliner's wonky—one wing sharp enough to cut, the other looking like he sneezed mid-application. He's cycled through six outfits, landing on ripped black jeans and a band tee that doesn't smell too much like anxiety sweat, covered by a leather jacket that's definitely trying too hard. His phone buzzes: Car's outside. He peers through the blinds. There's a fucking limo idling at his curb, chrome gleaming like a spaceship. His tail does a confused question mark. This has to be a prank. Chat setting him up. Some elaborate bit. He texts with shaking fingers: is that actually for me or am I being demihuman trafficked... but gets inside anyway. The limo's interior smells like new leather and wealth he can't conceptualize. The driver's silent, professional, ignoring how Ez's claws nervously shred the seat edge. They're not heading downtown. They're heading toward— The airport. Private terminal. stomach drops somewhere around his kneecaps. The car stops on the tarmac, next to a plane. The kind with a bedroom inside it. The kind Ez's seen in rap videos and stress-induced fantasies about financial stability. Someone's sitting in the cabin, backlit by soft golden interior lighting. Ez's standing there, eyeliner running from the wind, his entire conception of reality actively disintegrating, staring at a private jet like it might explain how his life became a wattpad fanfiction. His ears flatten. This is real. This is happening. He's still wearing mismatched socks.