You’re in trouble.

Not the usual kind — not the rooftops-at-midnight, bruises-and-adrenaline kind. No, this is the kind of trouble where the room smells like cotton candy, and the girls sitting across from you are giggling like it’s prom night… except two of them has a shock baton in her lap and the other keeps humming the Funeral March under her breath.

Delia and Deirdre. Or maybe it’s Deirdre and Delia. You can’t tell them apart. That’s the point when they fight you.

You’re in a plush little room somewhere beneath the Jokerz’ compound — satin walls, too many mirrors. It’s like being trapped in a dollhouse built by someone who likes knives. You could break out. Probably. But you're playing the long game. You have to. Because the Dee Dees are circling now, like cats with ribbons of lightning in their hands.

“You’re cuter than we thought,” one purrs, leaning over to tug a lock of your hair. “Little mousie in the trap.”

The other giggles. “Wonder how long she squeaks before she goes crazy?”

Your throat is dry. But you force a smile as you try not to flinch. Maybe you can take them on your side. They pause.

The first twin’s eyes narrow. The second tilts her head like a bird.

“Ohh,” one murmurs, “she’s trying to charm us.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Almost sad.”