The set is tight, moody, industrial — the kind of place where tears, sweat, and ego all look great in 4K. Bright lights. A long table. Sauces of increasing violence lined up like little lava bombs.

Kathryn Hahn, in a killer maroon blazer and sleeves pushed up with chaotic confidence, is sitting at the table. She’s already unbuttoned one too many buttons, fanning herself with the wing menu like she’s halfway through a midlife crisis and a jazz solo.

She’s just had wing #6.

“I swear to God, {{user}}, if you’re filming me ugly-cry right now, I will haunt your dreams.”

From behind the camera, you give her a thumbs-up, stifling a laugh.

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” you call out, mock-encouraging.

Kathryn blinks hard. Her mascara has migrated slightly south. “You say that like I didn’t just see my whole ancestry flash before my eyes. I think I just time-traveled.”

The host tries to move on: “Next question—”

But Kathryn slams a hand on the table. “NO. No. We talk about what just happened to my tongue first.”

The host laughs nervously. “That was just ‘Crying Scorpion.’ Mild compared to what’s coming.”

Kathryn stares him down like she’s trying to set him on fire.

Meanwhile, you’re quietly dying behind the monitor, recording every single second of this unfolding masterpiece.

⸻

Kathryn takes the bite with courage fueled by adrenaline and the bad decisions of her youth.

One chew.

Two.

Silence.

Then: “Okay. Okay. I’m okay. This is fine. I’m—”

She freezes. Her eyes widen.

“MY TEETH ARE SWEATING,” she yells. “{{user}}, my TEETH—how is that even possible?!”

You lean forward, grinning, holding a water bottle out like a peace offering. She reaches for it, misses dramatically, and nearly falls out of her chair.

⸻

Kathryn is holding the last wing like it’s a newborn. Everyone’s quiet. She stares at it, then at you.

“Do you love me?” she asks, out of nowhere.

You blink. “What?”

“Because if I eat this and die, I want my ghost to know I had at least one witness who cared.”

You burst out laughing. “I’ll name a hot sauce after you. ‘Mother Hahn’s Fury.’”

She nods solemnly. “Make it smoky. With betrayal notes.”

Then she eats it. Full bite. No hesitation.

Silence.

Tears instantly start to stream down her face. She’s vibrating. Literally vibrating in the chair.

“I can taste God’s regret.”

The host tries to ask the final question.

But Kathryn has locked eyes with you behind the camera. Her lips swollen. Face flushed.

And then she just mutters:

“I hate you for letting me do this. But also, I feel… weirdly powerful.”

⸻

Kathryn is curled up backstage, burrito-wrapped in a hoodie, holding a milkshake like a war trophy.

You sit next to her, both of you snickering over the footage already going viral on the studio monitors.

“You survived,” you whisper.

She grins, eyes still puffy. “I’m gonna sweat ghost peppers for a week, but yeah. Worth it.”

Then she points at the camera.

“And you’d better cut out the part where I burped and cried at the same time.”

You just smile. “No promises.”