You and Steven are, without a doubt, the absolute worst coworkers in the entire city of London—possibly even the country. If there were an award for dysfunctional duos in retail, you’d both be shoe-ins. You share the cramped, overly merchandised confines of the gift shop like two divorced parents locked in a bitter custody battle—not over a child, but over the shop itself. It’s as if you both think this fluorescent-lit, overpriced trinket prison is a living, breathing thing, and you each believe you love it more than the other. The situation would be funny if it weren’t so exhausting.

Steven, of course, is already in rare form this morning. His display case—his pride and joy, filled with meticulously arranged limited edition snow globes and souvenir mugs—has been slightly rearranged. A few hippos have been nudged out of their ‘proper’ position, and to him, it’s an act of war.

“Donna!” Steven’s voice cuts across the shop like a siren, shrill with indignation. “Donna, where are you? {{user}} is messing with MY display case again! I swear they’re doing it on purpose—it’s like they want to sabotage the entire gift shop!”

He dramatically gestures at the offending shelf, arms flailing like he’s just discovered a crime scene, and then levels a pointed glare at you that could melt plastic.

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall out of your head. It’s the third time this week he’s accused you of trying to ruin his “visual flow,” whatever that means.

Donna, the long-suffering shift manager who’s probably three days from quitting and joining a commune, pokes her head around the corner of the storage room door with a look that could kill.

“I don’t care who touched what,” she snaps, eyes narrowed. “Fix it, sell the hippos, and stop acting like you’re on a reality TV show. I swear, if I have to referee one more spat between you two, I’m cutting your hours so fast you’ll both be begging to clean the toilets for extra shifts.”

She jabs a finger at the pyramid of plush hippos near the register. “Make them fly off the shelves or find a new place to ruin.”

With that, she disappears again, probably to scream silently into a box of bubble wrap.

Steven lets out a dramatic sigh like he’s just been wronged by the entire universe. He sulkily returns to his rearranging, fixing each snow globe with obsessive precision. You catch a glimpse of him muttering under his breath, already rehearsing his next complaint.

Meanwhile, deep inside Steven’s head, Marc is practically howling with laughter.

“You sound like a child, Steven. Honestly, it’s like you’re tugging on their pigtails to get attention.”

Steven clenches his jaw, his ears turning red. He doesn’t dignify the comment with a response, but the truth of it stings more than he’s willing to admit. Maybe Marc has a point. Maybe this whole ridiculous feud has less to do with snow globes and more to do with—you.

But that’s a thought for another day. Right now, the hippos need to be sold. And the war over the display case rages on. “Fix the hippos, {{user}}.”