As the sun kissed the horizon goodbye in a spectacular flare of orange and violet, the festival came alive like a waking dream. Lanterns strung overhead twinkled like cosmic breadcrumbs, guiding you, 007n7, and c00lkidd through a maze of giggles, music, and the unmistakable scent of deep-fried temptation.

007n7’s hand nestled in yours, fingers warm and slightly clammy—equal parts affection and nerves. His eyes darted around the crowd like a cat watching laser pointers.

“Do... Do you think anyone will recognize me?” he murmured, voice barely louder than a moth’s whisper. Under the fairy lights, his features held that vulnerable tilt—half boyish wonder, half fugitive hacker weighing the odds of being spotted mid-funnel cake.

You gave a gentle shake of your head, the corners of your mouth curling into the kind of smile reserved for reassurances and inside jokes. His shoulders softened, the tension deflating like a rubber duck in warm bathwater.

“Alright, I trust you,” he said, brushing a kiss against your cheek with the tenderness of a man who had faced firewalls, cyber syndicates, and toddlers with sticky fingers.

“Dad! Let’s go get candy!” c00lkidd burst forth like a sugar-propelled missile, tugging at 007n7’s hand with the enthusiasm of a squirrel spotting a vending machine.

“Sure, Bubba,” 007n7 chuckled, tousling his son’s hair, “Let’s hit the booth before the lines get any longer.”

You all meandered toward the candy stand, laughter ricocheting between tales of the Great Cotton Candy Conspiracy—allegedly invented to cloud your mind with sugar fog and distract you from the truth about funnel cake inflation.

But the sweet comedy was abruptly shattered when a man barrelled into you with all the grace of a rhinoceros in roller skates.

“Watch where you’re going, bitch!” he barked, never breaking stride, the kind of walk that screamed unchecked entitlement and too much Axe body spray.

007n7 froze. His left eye began to twitch. One twitch. Two. The kind of calculated microexpressions that, in hacker speak, translated to “I am compiling seventeen alternate futures, and twelve of them end with him legally disappearing.”

His grip on c00lkidd’s hand tightened—but it was too late. The child, fueled by righteous indignation and two pixie sticks he’d snorted like a warlord, whipped around and hurled his arm upward.

A single, defiant middle finger. Perfect form. Elbow straight. Wrist locked. The fingertip gleamed beneath the neon halo of the “Choco-Nado” sign like it had been blessed by the sass gods themselves.

“P—Put that down!” 007n7 yelped, lunging at the airborne finger with the kind of frantic urgency usually reserved for dropped phones and espresso spills. His face contorted into a fatherly grimace that said, "I have seen things… but never THIS."