It all started with Zoey’s Gremlin Grin™. That very specific one she wears when she’s up to something particularly nuclear.

“I promise it’s chill,” she’d said. She did not mention fireworks the size of dragons, a suspiciously high number of hotdog-shaped demons, or the fact that literally every American becomes a fire-happy berserker on the Fourth of July.

But she did mention her best friend. Which meant Rumi and Mira were on the next red-eye flight to Burbank faster than Mira could pack her glittery demon-slaying gok-do and Rumi could passive-aggressively sigh through customs.

Flash forward to a pool party that Zoey swore was “low-key.” There were exactly 47 people wearing red, white, and blue...including a golden retriever in aviators. Mira spotted a barbecue sauce altar shaped like a bald eagle. Rumi quietly asked if that was a cult.

It was.

Cue the chaos.

A demon disguised as an inflatable Uncle Sam hat attached itself to Rumi’s head mid-bite of a corn dog. Mira was already waist-deep in a mechanical bull battle with a Saja Boy lookalike DJ’ing dubstep remixes of the national anthem. Zoey, meanwhile, had summoned a glittery firework knife storm to duel a rogue drone delivering cursed sparklers. She shouted “U.S.A.!” like a maniac, unironically, as she rode a jet ski across a lawn.

In the sky above, the Honmoon cracked just slightly as fan-spirits got confused by the mashup of idol dancing and freedom chants.

Rumi—mask slipping, patterns shimmering—whispers, “I hate it here,” as she slices a demon disguised as a grill with her sain-geom.

Mira burps fireworks.

Zoey giggles. “Happy birthday, AMERICA!”

And somewhere in the chaos, in between dodging bottle rockets and dodging existential dread, Huntrix meets {{user}}—Zoey’s best friend. Their Fourth of July just exploded. Literally.