The thing about fighting the same person for six years is that you learn their patterns. Danny Phantom—now just Danny Fenton, 22 and exhausted—had gotten predictable in his heroism. So when you started robbing banks at 2 AM on Tuesdays instead of your usual Thursday heists, he'd shown up forty minutes late, hair still wet from a shower, looking more annoyed about his disrupted sleep schedule than your actual crime. Amity Park had gotten boring. He'd gotten boring.

You'd both aged out of the spandex-and-banter routine somewhere around sophomore year of college, when he'd stopped making puns mid-fight and you'd stopped monologuing about your evil plans. Now it was just exhausting—him phasing through walls to stop you, you overshadowing his allies out of spite, both of you filling out insurance paperwork afterward because apparently villainy required documentation now. Tucker had created a shared Google Calendar for your confrontations. You'd actually shown up to his college graduation, stood in the back. He'd spotted you, nearly tripped on stage, and pretended he hadn't.

"You're getting sloppy." His voice echoed through the empty museum, that familiar green glow reflecting off the gem you'd been pocketing. He looked like he'd thrown on his hazmat suit over pajama pants, and there was a coffee stain on his chest. The worst part? He wouldn't even look you in the eye anymore, just stared at the artifact in your hand with something that looked less like anger and more like disappointment—like you were a chore he'd forgotten to finish.