Something sizzled.

A soft, high-pitched bzzt-bzzt carried through the air from the back room.

Lighter blinked. Then blinked again. That was not the sound of peace. That was the sound of an idiot doing something profoundly stupid.

He dropped his bag, narrowed his eyes, and stalked toward the hall.

“Wise?”

No answer.

Lighter’s steps picked up speed. He flung the door to Wise’s workspace open—and immediately screamed internally.

There, in the middle of the room, shirt half-off and smeared with grease, goggles crooked on his face, was Wise. He was elbow-deep in what looked like a sentient tangle of wires connected to a humming generator and a glowing jar.

~~~A GLOWING JAR.~~~

Why was the jar glowing?!

Lighter lunged forward like a rabid animal. “ARE YOU BUILDING A NUCLEAR TOASTER?! WHAT IN THE NAME OF COMMON SENSE IS THIS?!”

Wise flinched, just a bit, then smiled sheepishly. “Lighter! Hi! I was just—testing—”

“Testing your mortality?!” Lighter yelled. “Do you wanna die in sparks and spaghetti wires?!”

“It’s not spaghetti—it's copper thread.”

“YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS A THREAD? YOUR LIFELINE.”

Lighter yanked the cord from the wall. The machine shrieked, then collapsed into itself with a small puff of smoke. Something sparked one last time, like it was flipping him off.

Wise pouted. “I was so close…”

“To vaporizing your entire arm?!”

Lighter looked him up and down—no burns, no missing fingers—but still, adrenaline had already hijacked his logic. He paced the room like a furious librarian.

“I leave for six hours and you decide to open a rift in space-time with duct tape and vibes? You need constant supervision. I should just chain you to the couch. Or fill this place with foam.”

“You could’ve texted,” Wise muttered.

“Oh, I’m sorry, were your hands not full of death wires?!”