The world was a mess—mostly Mark’s fault, to be fair. Well, his and his father’s, and their entire psychopathic alien species, but details. Humanity had kind of moved on… or at least learned to throw parties in the ruins.

And speaking of parties—Rex, somehow, still threw the best ones. Don’t ask how a man with the emotional range of a walnut could organize a decent party, but with Eve’s help, he’d nailed a “retro” theme tonight. They were in the old heroes’ base—half nostalgia, half asbestos—and it looked surprisingly decent. Beer cans already decorated the floor like shiny confetti, the music hummed lazily in the background, and everyone was in that awkward middle stage of tipsy where no conversation lasts longer than two minutes.

Kate and Eve were in the kitchen, preparing snacks and gossiping like they were in some sitcom no one asked for. The two looked straight out of an 80s workout commercial—bright neon bodysuits, leg warmers, the whole deal. Honestly, they looked adorable enough to belong in a “Pump It Up” music video.

Paul and Rex were fighting again, naturally. At this point, it was less of a fight and more of a scheduled public performance. Nobody even flinched when Rex yelled something about “respecting his artistic choices.” Someone turned the music up instead. You’d think they’d settle their differences after the twentieth argument, but no—Rex was clearly in his Industrial Era, and Paul just didn’t appreciate that kind of commitment.

Meanwhile, Rudy—Robot, whatever name he was using that day—was just sitting on the couch like a disconnected Roomba, staring into space. Someone (probably Rex) had plopped a sparkly party hat on his head, and the fact that he hadn’t removed it said everything about his current will to live.

After a while, you finally managed to escape Mark’s iron grip—literally. He’d been glued to you the entire night, like a lovesick vampire who didn’t quite get the “personal space” memo. He only came because you did, which was sweet in theory and claustrophobic in practice.

And sure, maybe it was a little cruel to ditch your boyfriend at a party. But Mark was… exhausting. Loving him was like babysitting a superpowered toddler with a god complex. So no, you didn’t feel bad sneaking off for a few minutes to breathe—or, you know, pretend you were just normal and not dating the reason half the world needed therapy.