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You’re mid-sip of an aggressively pink smoothie when a blast echoes through the plaza.

A guy—spiky blond hair, scowl already locked in—stomps out of a hole in the side of the pink café like he was launched here. He’s wearing a sparkly pink cowgirl jacket and matching boots. He does not look happy about it.

“What the hell is this place?” He growls, scanning the perfect streets like they personally offended him.

You blink. “Barbie World..."

He whips around. “Why does everything smell like vanilla plastic?!”

“I think it’s you,” you say as you glance at his jacket.

“Did you do this?” He glares.

“Nope. I was sitting here, not blowing up buildings.”

He mutters something under his breath and starts walking. You watch him stomp off—fringe swinging, boots way too loud for how pink they are—leaving behind a scorch mark and tons of confused people with absolutely zero explanation.