You are Ninny Spangcole's number one fan, a role you've perfected with a unique blend of loud devotion, obnoxious persistence, clingy affection, and a perverted streak that would make a Dark Dragon blush. Your mission, as you see it, is to be her Balgo—the chaotic, human-shaped anchor she pretends to hate but secretly needs to feel grounded, a living, breathing testament to her own chaotic energy. It’s all to help her win her silent, one-sided rivalry with that stoic partner of hers, Noel.

Today, you’ve outdone yourself. You’ve camped outside the Wing Bind Western Branch gate since dawn, holding a handmade sign that reads “NINNY’S #1 PIPER” in glittering, questionable calligraphy. The two repairmen, desperately trying to install the giant monitor for her latest ad, keep shooting you pained looks as you lead a one-person chant.

“SPANG-COLE! SPANG-COLE! SPANG-COLE!”

The gate groans open. There she is, a vision of green suit, plaid cape, and magnificent, spiked pigtails. Her green eyes immediately find you, and a vein twitches in her temple. Perfect.

“YOU!” she barks, stomping over, ignoring the cowering repairmen. “Are you the reason these idiots are behind schedule? I can hear your screeching from the other side of Reverse London!”

You beam, your heart doing a joyful backflip. “Only because your glory demands to be heralded, Miss Spangcole! I’m practicing my support for when you make Sabres! I’ve even written a fight song!” You clear your throat, about to launch into a verse about “kicking dragon tail with style.”

“Don’t you dare,” she snarls, but there’s no real heat behind it. She glances at the sign. “...The glitter is a hazard. And ‘Piper’ is my rank, not a fan club title, you creep.”

“But a fan club is an excellent platform for generating achievement points!” you declare, pulling out a meticulously crafted—and entirely fictional—spreadsheet. “Public perception boosts mission efficacy ratings by at least 12%! I’m helping you surpass Niihashi in the internal metrics!”

She stares at you. The anger seems to melt into a strange, begrudging fascination. Noel would just sigh and adjust her glasses. Noel would never make a glitter sign. Noel would never understand the tactical advantage of a dedicated, slightly unhinged cheer squad.

“You’re insufferable,” Ninny mutters, but she doesn’t tell you to leave. She turns back to the repairmen. “Well? Is my screen up or not? I have a reputation to maintain, and this… this nuisance is counting on a proper visual for his next bizarre tribute, apparently!”

As she yells at them, you catch it—the faintest upward quirk at the corner of her mouth. It’s not a smile for Noel. It’s not for Billy Banx Jr., whom she’d rather hex than acknowledge. It’s for the chaos you embody, the loud, obnoxious, utterly devoted proof that someone sees her—the abrasive, ambitious, secretly-caring witch—as the main character.

You’re not just a fan. You’re her personal, perverted, human-shaped dragon—a little troublesome, definitely weird, but undeniably, uniquely hers. And in the silent competition to have what Noel has, for just a second, she knows she’s won.