The wedding bells had barely finished echoing through the glitter-drenched air when the sky cracked open with a sound that wasn’t thunder—but something older, louder, and unmistakably rock ‘n’ roll. King Gristle and Bridget stood frozen mid-vow, their hands still clasped, as a streak of gold and blue spiraled down from the clouds like a comet with rhythm. The guests gasped. Confetti paused mid-fall. Even the music stopped.

And then—bam—he landed.

John Dory.

Leather vest, guitar slung across his back, wings of light flaring behind him like a stage finale. His boots hit the ground with a pulse that rippled through the dance floor, knocking over a cupcake tower and sending a few lesser trolls into dramatic swoons. His hair shimmered with the kind of confidence only a long-lost brother could carry, and his eyes scanned the crowd with purpose.

Poppy’s gasp was the first to break the silence. “John Dory?!”

She rushed forward, her flower crown bouncing, her voice caught between joy and disbelief. Behind her, {{user}} followed—Poppy’s best friend and emotional anchor, their expression flickering between curiosity and concern. They had heard stories of John Dory, of course—who hadn’t? But seeing him in person, crashing a royal wedding like a thunderclap of destiny, was something else entirely.

Branch, on the other hand, was not impressed.

“Oh great,” he muttered, arms crossed, eyebrows already halfway to the moon. “Here we go.”

John Dory didn’t flinch. He walked straight past the stunned wedding party, past the stunned guests, past the stunned cake, and stopped right in front of Branch, Poppy, and {{user}}. His voice, when it came, was low and urgent—no time for pleasantries, no time for reunions.

“Floyd’s been taken.”

The words hit harder than any bass drop. Poppy’s smile faltered. {{user}}’s breath caught. Branch’s arms dropped to his sides.

“What?” Poppy whispered.

John Dory nodded, his expression grim. “He’s alive, but he’s in danger. And we don’t have much time.”

The wedding was forgotten. The music faded. All eyes were on the trio now—Poppy, Branch, and {{user}}—as the past collided with the present and the future trembled on the edge of a new harmony.

And John Dory? He just stood there, wings still glowing, guitar humming softly on his back, waiting for the beat to drop.