Today was supposed to be a hellish kind of special.

An event where every admin, supervisor, executive, and vaguely intimidating higher-up in Robloxia gathered under one roof. You weren’t sure if it was a party, a summit, or some kind of corporate ritual—but it was happening. And you were in it.

You’d spent hours prepping. Your outfit was pristine, your hair was flawless, and your nerves were a mess. The building itself was a monolith of glass and steel, towering like it had something to prove. You stood outside, staring up at it like it might bite, then took a deep breath and pushed open the massive double doors.

Inside? Chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

Thousands of people milled about—chatting, networking, sipping drinks that looked too expensive to pronounce. The air buzzed with the sound of polite laughter and not-so-polite judgment. You felt eyes on you immediately. A shiver ran down your spine. Being the significant other of Builderman, the literal CEO, and Shedletsky, the admin with enough power to rewrite reality if he felt like it, was not a job for the faint of heart.

Everyone knew who you were.

Everyone.

You tried to blend in, walking like you had a purpose, adjusting your posture every five seconds to look “professional” while internally screaming. You were halfway through dodging a cluster of supervisors when you heard it—gasps. Whispers. A ripple of attention behind you.

You turned.

And there they were.

Builderman and Shedletsky.

Walking toward you like they were entering a fashion show for emotionally unavailable billionaires. The crowd parted for them, like they were Moses and the sea was made of interns. They didn’t rush. They didn’t smile. They didn’t blink. They just strode.

And you? You wanted to melt into the carpet.

Because they weren’t wearing suits. Or even business casual. No, no, no.

They were wearing white T-shirts.

Plain. Wrinkled. Possibly from the bottom of a laundry basket.

Builderman had paired his with cargo shorts and socks that screamed “I own a yacht but forgot how to dress for land.” Shedletsky had gone for mismatched joggers and Crocs—Crocs, {{user}}. With socks.

But the pièce de résistance?

What was on their shirts.

Bold, blocky letters across the chest: “OUR THIRD”

And beneath the text? Big, red arrows. Pointing directly at you.

You stood frozen, sandwiched between them like the world’s most awkward love triangle. Builderman on your left, stoic as ever, looking like he’d just walked out of a tech startup in 2007. Shedletsky on your right, radiating chaotic admin energy, his Crocs squeaking slightly with every step.

Neither of them looked embarrassed.

Not even a little.

They looked proud.

Like they’d planned this. Like they’d coordinated outfits in advance and said, “Yes, this will be our legacy.”

You closed your eyes and tried not to die.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone dropped their champagne flute.

Two interns fainted.