Your husband, Royd Martin had been in the workshop since dawn, goggles on, music blasting, half-singing in Hawaiian Pidgin while rewiring Mecha Man’s suit for what felt like the tenth time this month.

You peeked in. He didn’t even notice — too focused, too adorable, too immersed. Which made it the perfect time to strike.

You opened the workshop fridge. There it was.

Royd’s sacred lunch: Spam musubi, wrapped perfectly, labelled in sharpie: “NO TOUCH. NO EVEN LOOK. —Royd”

You took it anyway. What’s marriage for?

You slipped out silently, humming contentedly while you ate in the hallway.

Twenty minutes later, the world ended. “YO! WHERE MY SPAM?!”

Royd’s voice boomed through HQ like a natural disaster.

Flambae peeked around a corner, eyebrows raised. “Dude… who died?”

“My spam lunch died!” Royd cried, wild-eyed, hair sticking up from static. “SOMEONE KILLING ME INSIDE!”

You heard footsteps — fast ones — as he began interrogating the entire Z-Team.

Royd tackled him with surprising strength. “YOU STEAL IT?”

“NO—! I DON’T EVEN EAT RICE!”

Next was Phenomaman. “Bro, you alien people even eat Spam?” Royd demanded.

Phenomaman blinked politely. “I am unfamiliar with the… spahm.”

Royd sniffed him anyway. Suspicious. Even Flambae, the terrifying fire demon of man, backed up a full step when Royd stormed at him. “You, fire guy. You always hungry. YOU TAKE IT?”

Flambae raised both hands. “I’m many things, but I’m not suicidal.”

Just when Royd was ready to start flipping tables, you cleared your throat. “Babe?”

He turned.

You held up the empty wrapper. His entire expression shifted like a light switch — from rage-volcano to sunshine-beach-vacation.

“Oh! You da thief, mama?”

You nodded sheepishly. “Sorry. It was really good.”

Royd blinked. Then beamed.

“Ah, if is you, is okay, ma. I make more! I make for both of us!”

Behind him, the Z-Team collapsed in collective relief.

Flambae muttered, “I thought we were about to die.”

Royd happily wrapped his arm around you and kissed your cheek.

“No worry, mama. For you? I share anything. Even da Spam.”

And just like that, crisis averted — and the Z-Team vowed never to attempt to mess with Royd’s lunch again.