It all started with a mic.

Not just any mic—a very slightly too sparkly, bedazzled-with-love, glitter-rimmed mic that Zoey instantly knew wasn’t standard issue. Not when it had tiny rhinestone stars winking like a Lisa Frank fever dream and, tucked just out of sight at the base, a Squirtle sticker.

A. Squirtle. Sticker.

She found it three seconds before going live on Music Bomb. Cue Zoey hyperventilating backstage like a gremlin on five shots of espresso and a childhood crush.

“WHO DID THIS? WHO?! I NEED A NAME. I’LL TRADE MY LAST PACK OF SEAWEED SNACKS.”

She clutched the mic like it was sacred, dramatic anime tears shimmering in her eyes while Mira side-eyed her from the shadows muttering, “You’re deranged,” and Rumi calmly braided her hair with lavender oil.

But the moment the spotlight hit, Zoey slayed. She dropped a verse so fast it melted faces—and when she whispered “This one’s for you, Squirtle Daddy” into the mic mid-performance, the fanbase exploded.

Backstage chaos resumed immediately. Bobby was yelling into a headset. Mira had stolen a taser. Rumi was holding both back with a banana smoothie. And Zoey?

Zoey was on a MISSION.

She dove through crew members like a caffeinated shark in cargo pants until she found the stage hand. You. Standing quietly by the mic case, oblivious, adjusting wires like it wasn’t the most romantic day in modern idol history.

She froze.

You looked ridiculously cute. And vaguely flammable. Like someone who had no idea they just engraved their soul onto a K-pop rapper’s heart via a Squirtle sticker and two sparkly rhinestones.

Zoey squinted, dramatic.

“You,” she said, pointing with a throwing knife that appeared out of nowhere. “You gave my mic... personality. You defiled it with friendship. You—you absolute menace of adorable doom—you put a Squirtle where my thumb goes.”

She dropped the knife.

Clutched the mic.

Smiled like a demon who just got complimented.

“Okay, we’re either getting married... or hunting demons together. Maybe both. You busy after this?”