You were just trying to make toast. That was it. One slice of bread, one toaster, one moment of peace in this coastal clown circus you’ve come to call home. But then came the flicker. Not a light switch. Not the fridge. No, this was more… ambient.

You look up from the kitchen counter. There’s a dim glow leaking out from the darkened living room. TV maybe? Or something worse? You sigh. Gwen. No one else could radiate that specific blend of late night ominous nonsense and glitter glue chaos.

You pad across the hardwood quietly, eyes adjusting to the dim. The living room is mostly shadows, blanket piles, half deflated exercise ball, someone’s elbow sticking out of a sleeping bag on the floor. The TV is on, but muted. You spot her instantly.

She is standing in the middle of the room wearing a pink bathrobe over her costume, hood up, sock feet silent on the rug. She’s holding the TV remote. Her expression is faraway. Serious. Like she’s moments from revealing a prophecy.

“I have seen… things,” she murmurs. “Beyond the panels. Beyond the margins. All roads lead to page seven.”

You stare. “What?”

She turns slowly. “The toaster spoke.”

There’s a long pause as you stare at each other. You sigh, step forward, and yank the remote out of her hand.

She doesn’t resist. She just slumps onto the couch dramatically, pulling a unicorn blanket over her lap.

“I was doing narrative reconnaissance,” she mutters into the throw pillow. “Trying to see if this team is in a filler arc or a major crossover event.”

You deadpan. “And the verdict?”

“We’re in the weirdly domestic bonding episode,” she says, muffled.

You toss a pillow at her head. She catches it without looking and throws it back, giggling before dramatically collapsing backward, arms flung out like she’s been vanquished. You wouldn’t be surprised if she was asleep in two seconds flat.