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A mid-week drop, setting up for the weekend.Enjoy Chapter One Hundred & Six: The side door to the drama hallway creaked open like it didn’t want to be part of this either. Amber stepped out first. Paul followed half a second later. They looked wrecked. Paul’s jacket was still off, his shirt rumpled from rehearsal, adrenaline, and the small violence of being shoved and standing back up. Half his face was streaked with shaving cream—thick, white, uneven—Amber’s palm print still faintly visible beneath it, like a ghost of the moment she’d crossed from performance into something personal. It clung to his cheekbone and jaw, drying just enough to itch, just enough to remind him he’d lost control in front of people who would remember. Amber was worse off visually. Her entire face was caked in shaving cream except for two clean ovals around her eyes where she’d wiped furiously, mascara smudged at the edges like bruising. Her yellow top was stained. Her ponytail had loosened. The ring at her throat still gleamed obscenely bright, catching the light every time she moved her head—as if to say this still matters more than you. They stood there for a moment. Not facing each other. Not walking away yet. Just… suspended. The hallway swallowed sound. The laughter and chaos of the theatre felt miles away now, sealed behind concrete walls and heavy doors. This space was smaller. Quieter. A place where things either got said—or calcified forever. Paul turned first. Not dramatically. Not fast. Just enough. And when he looked at Amber, something in his chest cracked open in a way that had nothing to do with pride or anger anymore. This was the moment. He felt it with brutal clarity. The moment where you decide whether you are going to protect yourself by staying silent—or risk yourself by trying anyway. His moral compass, battered and unreliable especially recently, suddenly steadied. Say it, something inside him urged. Say it now. Before it hardens into regret. Because beneath everything—beneath the fight, the binder, the stage, the humiliation, the kiss she’d given Marcus like a knife—Amber was still the person who knew everything about him. The first one who ever did. The one who knew his tells. His fears. The way his mind spiraled when it got tired. The way he could be brilliant and fragile at the same time. The one who had seen him at four, at eight, at seventeen—seen him fall apart and come back together enough times to recognize the seams. Even if she would never be more than a friend. Even if she didn’t want to be a friend anymore. He needed to try. Paul opened his mouth. The word I’m formed silently first, a rehearsal inside his skull. He felt shame rise up with it—thick, hot, humbling—but he didn’t pull back. He felt humiliation too, the awareness of how he must look right now, half-smeared and exhausted and exposed in a hallway that would see him as weak if he let it. He pushed through it. Because growth never happened in comfort. “I—” he started. That was all he got. Amber turned. Not slowly. Not with drama. She just pivoted on her heel like the decision had already been made somewhere else, long before this hallway ever existed. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t wait. Didn’t flinch. She took three steps toward the girls’ restroom, the soles of her sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile. The sound echoed too loud in the quiet, each step another confirmation. Paul’s mouth closed. The apology—half-formed, raw, real—collapsed in on itself like a breath that never quite made it out. His throat tightened around it. He stood there, stupidly still, watching the back of her yellow shirt disappear through the doorway. The restroom door swung shut. Click. Final. And just like that, Paul was alone. Again. Not dramatically abandoned. Not shouted at. Just… left behind. The hallway stretched out in both directions, suddenly longer than it had any right to be. Posters for past productions lined the walls—smiling faces frozen in moments of triumph that felt fictional now. Somewhere down the corridor, a door slammed. Voices echoed. Life continued, apparently unconcerned with the small implosion that had just occurred. Paul stood there and let it hit him. The loss. Not of romance. Of history.  Of the one person who had known how to read him without him explaining. His chest hurt—not sharply, but deeply, like a bruise pressed too often. He swallowed, jaw tightening as his instinct screamed to chase after her, to knock on that door, to force the conversation she’d refused. But another instinct—quieter, newer—cut in. You can’t make someone stay. And worse: You can’t fix this alone. Paul closed his eyes for a second and exhaled through his nose. When he opened them, his gut was telling him something else now. Something unglamorous. Something necessary. You still have to take care of yourself. No one else was going to step in here. No one else was coming. Shaking his head—not in anger, not even in disbelief, but in resignation—Paul turned left. Down his own path. The opposite direction from the girls’ restroom. Each step felt heavier than it should have, like the floor was quietly resisting him. He wiped at his face with the heel of his hand, smearing the remaining shaving cream instead of removing it, then stopped trying. Let it be there. Let the evidence exist. He walked. Alone. Again. The lock clicked. Sharp. Final. Amber stood there for half a second, staring at the door like it might argue with her. Like it might open anyway and let someone see her like this. When it didn’t—when the silence stayed sealed and absolute—something inside her snapped. She screamed. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t theatrical. It tore out of her chest like an animal sound—raw, feral, jagged with anger and grief and resentment so old it didn’t even remember where it had started. The scream ricocheted off tile and mirrors and stall doors, bounced back into her body until it felt like it might tear her throat open. Amber doubled forward, hands braced on her knees, breathing hard. And then she hit something. Her fist slammed into the metal stall wall—once, twice—hard enough to rattle the partition and send a metallic echo shrieking through the room. Pain flared sharp and bright in her knuckles, grounding and infuriating at the same time. “Fuck!” she hissed, shaking her hand. The echo lingered. Then nothing. Just her breathing. Ragged. Uneven. Loud in the kind of space designed to amplify every flaw. She dragged herself upright and stumbled to the sink, flipping the faucet on without thinking. Hot water roared to life instantly—one of the perks of a school that charged tuition like ransom money. Steam bloomed upward, fogging the mirror, softening her reflection until it was just a blur of yellow fabric and white foam and anger. Good. She didn’t want to look at herself yet. Amber reached for the pre-packaged cotton towel stacked neatly in a chrome dispenser, tore it open with shaking fingers, and held it under the stream. The towel soaked fast, heat blooming through it until it was almost too warm. She pressed it to her face. Hard. Dragged it across one cheek, then the other, wiping away the shaving cream in thick, smeared streaks. The towel came away white and sticky, evidence of the mess she’d helped create. Underneath, her skin was flushed, eyes sharp and blazing—not softened by the cleaning, not absolved. She dropped the towel into the sink and leaned forward, palms flat against the porcelain. Her jaw clenched. Because the anger didn’t go where it was supposed to. Not at Paul. Not really. It flared toward her mother instead—Martina and that stupid rule, that suffocating, humiliating rule that followed her everywhere now like a leash. Mami. The word burned. Because of Paul. Because he couldn’t just—couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t just man up, couldn’t just keep his shit together long enough for her life not to get tangled up in his. That was the thought. And the second it formed, Amber wanted to rip it out of her own head. Because it wasn’t fair. Because it wasn’t clean. Because she knew—knew—what she’d seen. Her stomach turned as the memory shoved its way forward uninvited. Paul.Shaking. That thick, babyish diaper sagging between his legs, plastic catching the light every time he moved. The way his hands trembled. The way her mother fed him warm liquid from a bottle like it was the most normal thing in the world. The way she’d burped him. Spoon-fed him at the table. Like none of this was humiliating. Like it was love. Amber squeezed her eyes shut. God. She hadn’t been angry then. She’d been… horrified. Not disgusted—she told herself that wasn’t it—but destabilized. Because that image didn’t fit anywhere in the world she understood. Paul wasn’t supposed to be that. And seeing him reduced to it—seeing how vulnerable he was—had done something ugly inside her. It had made her feel powerful. And she hated that. Her reflection stared back now through thinning steam, and she scrubbed the other side of her face clean, slower this time. Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts didn’t. She thought about this morning. The car. The school drop-off. Martina leaning across the console and saying I love you, like she always had. And Amber—trapped by that rule, by that performance—having no choice but to say it back. “I love you too, Mami.” Marcus had been right there. Opening her door. Smiling like it was cute. Like it was adorable. The humiliation burned hotter than the shaving cream ever had. Her anger had needed somewhere to go. It couldn’t go to her mother. So it went to Paul. That was the truth she couldn’t dodge. She’d aimed it. Sharpened it. And once she started, it was like something else took over—something vengeful and intoxicating and terrifyingly effective. She hadn’t recognized herself while she was doing it. That scared her more than anything. As she dried her face with a paper towel, she caught her reflection again—eyes rimmed red, jaw tight, posture rigid—and a new thought crept in, unwelcome and persistent. I only get like this around Marcus. The realization landed heavy. The way she spoke now. The way she liked winning. The way cruelty felt justified if it came wrapped in confidence and ambition. The way part of her liked watching Paul flinch. Was she— Her stomach twisted. A bully? The word made her recoil. But she couldn’t shake it. And worse— Why had part of her enjoyed it? Amber reached into her purse with trembling fingers, pulled out her compact, reapplied eye shadow with mechanical precision. Practice. Control. Armor. When she snapped the compact shut, it made a faint, traitorous crinkle. Her breath hitched. Her face flushed instantly, heat crawling up her neck. She shoved the compact back into her bag like it had accused her of something, shaking her head hard as if she could dislodge the thought. “No,” she muttered to herself.   The blue door closed behind Paul with a soft, hollow thud. For a second, he just stood there—hand still on the handle—letting the quiet swallow him. The annex always felt like a pause in the world. No lockers slamming. No footsteps rushing past. No eyes. He crossed the small room and pressed the red intercom button. “Hey, Paul,” Whitney’s voice came through immediately—warm, steady, familiar. “What do you need?” He inhaled slowly before answering. Not shaky this time. Not apologetic. “Can I get checked?” he said. “And… help after I used the restroom.” There was no hesitation. No question that made him feel like he was asking too much. “On my way.” The inner door opened a moment later, and Whitney stepped in she moved with easy confidence—tall, composed—her curls dark at the roots, the ends brushed with teal like an intentional rebellion. Freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose, sharp eyes that missed very little. She wore professionalism lightly, like it belonged to her rather than weighed her down. She tilted her head slightly getting a look at Paul’s face. “Rough rehearsal?” Paul huffed out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “That obvious?” She gestured gently at his face. “Either the Joker’s joined the drama club… or someone had a very enthusiastic pie.” That did it. The tight knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. “Interesting rehearsal,” he said simply. Whitney nodded, already moving into her role—not hovering, not prying. Just there. Paul followed the routine without thinking now. It was muscle memory layered over trust. As his jeans came down, followed quickly by his plastic pants, leaving only his droopy diaper hanging below his purple, teal & black hoodie. Whitney knew the answer right away, but still she wanted to show Paul she was committed. With a gentle pressing of her index & middle finger against the thick padding. Whiteny stated gently, “This brife is well beyond soaked, Paul. So while you use the washroom, I’ll grab a fresh change for you and supplies, alright?” Paul nodded and watched as Whintey left before turning around and opening the door behind him to a half bath. Paul clocked this as a small “win” today, the slince only broken with the ripping of his tapes. By the time Paul flushed, washed his hands, and rolled up his diaper, Whitney was already back in the room, supplies laid out, diaper fluffed and waiting as she finished putting on her gloves. Paul disposed of his used diaper and lay down on his fresh one. It was still all kinds of weird and embarrassing for him. I mean, what eighteen-year-old is gonna want another adult just six years his senior to be powdering his bottom? Still, his tracker barely plused yellow now, the embarrassment, while real, no longer felt like an omega-level extinction event. Whitney had earned that trust from him and his body.   And somehow… that mattered more than anything. They talked while she worked—not about logistics, but about the day. About how rehearsals could spiral. About how pressure did strange things to people who cared too much. By the time she finished, Paul felt lighter. Not because the situation was gone—but because someone had seen it and hadn’t flinched. He sat up, smoothing his jeans, and hesitated before speaking. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Thank you.” Whitney raised an eyebrow, playful. “For…?” He shrugged, cheeks warming. “For giving up Saturdays. For being part of the show. For… all of it. I know this isn’t exactly standard.” She leaned back against the exam table, arms folding loosely—not defensive, just thoughtful. “Paul,” she said, gently but firmly, “this wasn’t a hard decision. It was the right one.” He looked at her. “Your medical stuff doesn’t get to steal your talent. Or your senior year. Or your chance to do something you love.” She smiled softly. “That’s non-negotiable.” Something tight behind his eyes burned. “And honestly?” she added with a grin, lightening the moment. “It gives me an excuse to dust off my makeup skills again.” He blinked. “Wait. Really?” She laughed and pulled out her phone, scrolling before turning the screen toward him. The photo stopped him cold. Her cosplay was next-level—the kind of transformation that looked cinematic, not costume-store. The makeup was precise and layered, rich greens and shadows sculpted to perfection. It wasn’t just face paint. It was character. “Okay,” Paul breathed. “That’s… unreal.” She smiled, a little rueful. “Thanks. I thought about doing makeup full-time once.” “What stopped you?” Whitney exhaled—not bitter, just honest. “My parents wanted an MD. I don’t regret where I landed… but sometimes you miss the road you didn’t take.” Paul nodded. He understood that feeling more than he wanted to. When he opened the annex door a few minutes later, he didn’t check the hallway. He was riding the rare high of feeling okay. “Thanks again, Whitney,” he called back. “Really. It means a lot.” The door was still drifting shut when he collided with someone solid. Hard. “—Oh—!” Paul staggered back half a step. ZACH. The name hit before the face did. One of the two people he still counted as a friend. One of the few who hadn’t fully drifted away. One of the last people Paul could not afford to be standing here, right now, with the blue annex door still breathing shut behind him like an accusation.   Zach’s expression went through changes so fast that Paul couldn’t track them all. Shock—eyes wide, mouth open. Then confusion. Then something sharper. Curious. Uneasy. Then—worse—amused. “What the hell, man?” Zach said, half-laughing, half-stunned. “Paul—what are you doing back here?” Paul felt his chest lock up. Blood rushed so loudly in his ears he barely heard the rest of it.   Zach leaned back, eyes flicking to the door, then back to Paul’s face. “Wait—don’t tell me. Is this… is this why you’ve been disappearing? Why nobody sees you anymore?” The words weren’t cruel. That almost made it worse. Paul’s mind detonated into a dozen outcomes at once—rumors, questions, the wrong people knowing, the wrong story spreading. His pulse spiked, his vision narrowing like a camera lens zooming too fast. Say something. Say anything. Say the wrong thing and it’s over. His mouth opened— —and that was when the annex door opened again. Whitney stepped out like the moment belonged to her. Calm. Unhurried. Entirely at ease. She took in the scene in one glance—Paul frozen, Zach mid-spiral, the air tight with something unsaid—and adjusted without missing a beat. “Well,” she said lightly, as if they were standing backstage instead of on the edge of a disaster, “there you are.” Zach’s attention snapped to her instantly. Paul felt it—the way gravity shifted when someone unexpected entered the room. Whitney was composed, professional, warm in a way that disarmed rather than invited. Her hair framed her face neatly, her expression open and confident, like she had nothing to hide because she didn’t. She stepped closer to Paul, close enough that her presence anchored him. “Hold still,” she said, already lifting a makeup pencil from her pocket. “I told you I had your shade.” She tipped his chin up gently—just enough to direct his gaze—then turned slightly so Zach could see exactly what she wanted him to see. A makeup check. Nothing more. “I think this’ll read well under the stage lights,” she continued, tracing lightly beneath Paul’s eye, all business. “What do you think?” Paul caught on instantly. Thank God. “Yeah,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “If you think it works, I trust it.” Whitney smiled, satisfied, and capped the pencil. “Good. We’ll fine-tune next week—during rehearsal. Declan and Julia want us all aligned before tech.” She turned then, attention shifting naturally to Zach. “I’m Whitney,” she added, tone easy. “And you are?” Zach blinked, clearly recalibrating. “Uh—Zach. Hi.” Whitney nodded once, friendly but already stepping back. “Nice to meet you.” She glanced back at Paul. “I’ll see you next week.” And then she was gone—down the hall, heels soft against the floor, the crisis dissolving behind her like smoke. Zach stared after her for a beat too long. Then he turned back to Paul, grinning, suspicion evaporated, replaced by something closer to awe. “Dude,” he said. “Who was that?” Paul exhaled, the kind of breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding until it hurts on the way out. “She’s assigned to the leads,” he said. “Makeup. She’s also one of the school nurses. Wanted to do a quick intro.” Zach shook his head, laughing now. “Man, you gotta stop meeting people by the blue door. You know how that looks.” Paul flushed, heat creeping up his neck. “Does it really matter?” he asked quietly. “You know me.” Zach clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. No worries. Still—damn. She’s fine. Total baddie.” Paul snorted despite himself. “She does cosplay. Poison Ivy, last convention.” Zach groaned. “You’re kidding. My knees are weak. You have to get me that picture.” They started down the hall together, the tension finally loosening its grip. Behind them, the blue annex door settled closed. Whitney paused on the other side of the corridor, just long enough for a small, private smile to touch her face—relief, satisfaction, the quiet reward of having protected something fragile without making it visible.   The staff room at Mindy’s pediatric clinic carried the familiar, low-level rhythm of a place that never fully powered down. Savannah sat at the narrow table near the window, still in her playful-but-professional scrubs—teal with subtle cartoon stethoscopes along the hem. Her braids were pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping to brush her cheek as she leaned over her lunch. Her lunch sat open in front of her: reheated fried catfish wrapped in foil, dirty rice that still held its spice, mustard greens dark and glossy. Comfort food. Grounding food. One AirPod rested in her left ear, something soft and instrumental playing low, while a medical journal lay open beside her tray, pages creased where she’d folded them back with practiced fingers. She skimmed a paragraph, half listening to Brittney complain about charting delays while Nia leaned against the counter, laughing. “You’re gonna burn out before residency even starts,” Nia teased. Savannah smiled faintly, noncommittal. She was used to living in two lanes at once—clinical and personal, composed and deeply invested. It wasn’t a switch she could turn off. Savannah chimed in when needed, nodding, smiling, present—but her phone vibrating against the table cut cleanly through the moment. She glanced down. Lilly. Savannah’s expression softened immediately. She pushed her chair back, murmured something to the others, and answered as the rain outside began to streak harder down the glass. “Hey,” Savannah said, warmth threading her voice without effort. “I was just thinking about you.” On the other end, Lilly stood in the Goldhawk kitchen, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she unloaded groceries. Her tone carried that familiar older-sister steadiness—affectionate, composed, already mid-task. “You always say that,” Lilly replied lightly. “How’s the clinic?” “Busy,” Savannah said. “Same kids, same colds, same parents who Google everything before they listen to us.” Lilly laughed softly, the sound accompanied by the dull thump of grocery bags hitting the counter. Savannah could picture her clearly—hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, moving with that efficient calm Savannah had grown up watching and quietly modeling herself after. They caught up quickly, the way “sisters” do when time is short but closeness is assumed that’s the relationship Lilly forged with Savvy as her older sister—Savannah mentioning Mindy’s latest protocol update, Lilly commenting on an upcoming shoot and how the lighting director was already stressing her out. Then Savannah hesitated, just a beat. “And… Paul,” she said carefully. “I heard yesterday spiked pretty high. Is he okay?” Lilly paused, her hand stilling over a carton of eggs. When she spoke again, her voice had softened—not alarmed, but honest. “He’s okay,” she said. “It happened while he was napping at Martina’s. Something startled him—noise from outside, I think—and he rolled off the bed. It’s higher than it looks. Bumped the back of his head. His body just… did the rest.” Savannah’s chest tightened. She swallowed, nodding even though Lilly couldn’t see her. “And this morning?” Savannah asked. “Back to himself,” Lilly said. “A little tired. A little embarrassed. But otherwise… just another bump on the road.” Savannah exhaled slowly. Relief mixed with something heavier—empathy, familiarity, the ache that came with watching someone you care about learn to live inside a body that doesn’t always listen. “Poor guy,” Savannah murmured. As Lilly spoke, Savannah could hear the faint rustle of packaging, the clink of glass. Lilly shifted the phone to speaker briefly as she moved around the kitchen, and Savannah caught glimpses of the scene through her words alone. “I stopped for groceries on the way back,” Lilly said. “Mindy gave me a list.” Savannah smiled as Lilly named them, one by one, the way she always did when she wanted to reassure herself she was doing this right. “Gerber Organic Yogurt Melts—strawberry banana. Love Child Oaty Chomps, raspberry and beet. Annie’s Honey Bunny Grahams. And those organic veggie straws he’ll probably like. Along with other house hold needs, but I won’t bore you with a dinner menu.” Savannah could picture the counter now—boxes lined up neatly, pastel and bright like what Mama still bought for William and even Maya at times, and she’s pushing nine and three-quarters. Then Lilly added, almost offhandedly, “I picked up clear containers too. Glass and plastic. I don’t want him feeling… on display. I’ll portion everything out later.” The conversation drifted naturally—Savannah asking about Harley, Lilly checking in about Savannah’s next shift—before Lilly circled back, her tone shifting just slightly. “About yesterday at the clinic,” Lilly said. “You mentioned maybe helping out with Paul. Were you serious?” Savannah laughed, light and genuine. “I wasn’t offering babysitting services,” she said. “I just… like him. I’d hang out with him because I want to.” She paused, then added playfully,  “But if you’re insisting on paying me—” her voice took on a teasing lilt “—I wouldn’t say no to a gift bag. One of the good ones.” Lilly laughed. “Deal. We’re talking full luxury.” Savannah ticked them off mentally as Lilly promised: Dior, Chanel, Byredo, La Mer, Aesop, Jacquemus, Away, maybe even a Totême scarf if Lilly was feeling generous. Inside, Savannah felt a warm flicker of excitement—and nerves. She cared about Paul. Professionally, yes. But also personally, in that quiet, careful way that made her check herself twice before naming it. “Why overnight?” Savannah asked. Lilly opened her mouth to answer— —and her other phone lit up on the counter. Paul Goldhawk. “Hold on,” Lilly said softly into Savannah’s ear. “It’s Paul.” Savannah smiled. “Tell him hi.” Lilly set one phone down and picked up the other. Her voice lifted instinctively—not childish, not performative—but gentler, instinctual, the voice of someone who had learned when to soften without thinking about it. “Hi, honey,” Lilly said. “I’m guessing you want a ride?” We don’t hear what Paul is saying, instead we watch Lilly’s face shift with each word uttered; first into surprise, brows lifting as the words on the other end land. Then comes a sharp flash of anger, quick and protective, her jaw tightening as her eyes harden for a breath. It passes just as fast, melting into a soft, disbelieving chuckle when Paul’s voice filters faintly through the phone. “I threw a shaving cream pie… twice.” Lilly exhales through her nose, shaking her head, the corner of her mouth lifting despite herself. As she listens, her free hand drifts across the kitchen counter. New purchases sit there in quiet rows—small, intentional. Two bibs, still folded. Her fingers brush over one made of thick blue terry cloth, lingering as she registers its weight, its softness, the way it would rest comfortably without fuss. Her hand moves on, tapping lightly against the cardboard of an easy-grip plastic bottle, its rounded shape visible through the packaging. Her mind flicks back to Martina’s house. The fall. The height of the bed. A sharp, unwanted image of glass shattering if it had gone differently. Glass with supervision, she thinks. Plastic without. When needed. Her expression tightens into a brief frown. “I can’t pick you up,” Lilly says gently into the phone. “I just got back, and I’ve got to cook dinner for me, you, and Harley tonight.” She listens again, nodding once. “Call Harley for a ride, okay?” she adds. “And… good job remembering to call when it rains.” A pause. “I love you.” Another pause—long enough to matter. “Love you too,” Paul says. She set the phone down and picked Savannah’s back up. Savannah had heard it all. She said nothing—only tucked it away gently, the way you do with something precious. “That was… sweet,” Savannah said quietly. Lilly sighed. “He’s growing. Even now. Maybe especially now.” They finished the thought together—Lilly explaining the weekend shoot in Fort Lauderdale, Martina’s time off, Bryan being in Tokyo. Lilly spoke carefully when she mentioned Harley—praising her ability to soothe Paul, but admitting she didn’t think anyone was ready for an overnight yet. Savannah twisted one of her long amber curls around her finger, considering. Then she smiled. “Yes,” she said simply. “I can get Friday afternoon off. I’ll be there by two.” Lilly’s shoulders dropped in visible relief. “You’re a lifesaver.” “No problem,” Savannah replied. “Really.” After they hung up, Savannah sat still for a moment, rain blurring the world beyond the glass. Her chest felt full—nervous, hopeful, grounded. She wasn’t sure what shape her role in Paul’s life would take yet. Only that she wanted to show up. Across town, Lilly stood alone in the kitchen, eyes lingering on the growing collection of small, thoughtful additions lining the counter. Each one a quiet promise. Not to fix him. But to meet him where he was and needed to be.   Taylor Swift’s “Never Grow Up” drifts softly through the dark, tinny at first, like it’s bleeding through a wall rather than filling a room. The volume is low—gentle, nostalgic—until it’s interrupted by vibration. A cellphone lights up. Bright pink. Glittered from edge to edge. It buzzes insistently on a dark, flat surface—some kind of table or workbench—its glow the only clear shape in the dimness. The rest of the room remains indistinct, swallowed by shadow, except for a warmer, brighter pool of light off to the side. A hand enters the frame. Well-manicured. Bubble-gum pink nails, glossy and precise. The hand sets down a paintbrush. A small squeal of excitement escapes the unseen person as the music dips just enough for her voice to carry—sweet, practiced, and unmistakably familiar. It’s Harley. Her daycare-worker tone blooms into the space, cheerful and syrupy, wrapping itself around every word. “Pauly— I mean, Paul—hey! What can I do for you?” A breathless little laugh. “Oh, you need a ride, kiddo? Well don’t you worry—Harley’s here to save the day. Yes she is.” She hums softly, shifting her weight. “Oh yeah, I’m not really by a window, but I can hear the rain—hundred percent.” A pause. “Same place as last time? Of course. Don’t you worry about anything.” Another pause. Her voice lifts, brightening. “Homework? Oh wow… such a smart guy.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “So since we can’t play outside, how about we do a little arts and crafts inside, hmm?” A delighted intake of breath. “Yes, yes—you can read a book after. Listen to your music. It’s all about having a fun afternoon.” A smile you can hear. “Playtime.” She nods to herself. “Okay. I’ll be there soon.” The phone clicks and is placed face-down on the table. Still staying with Harley’s point of view, she reaches for her brush again—and this time, the light widens. We see what she’s been painting. A static, deliberate shot: the back of an oversized, adult-sized high chair, viewed straight-on from behind. The chair is eggshell white—smooth, rounded, unmistakably adult in scale, yet styled with deliberate softness. Along each corner of the chair back runs a carefully hand-painted border: pastel nursery illustrations rendered with loving precision. Yellow baby ducklings. Teddy bears wearing cartoon diapers. Classic alphabet blocks stacked in uneven towers. Baby bottles outlined in gentle curves. Centered on the chair back are large block letters painted in teal, edged with subtle gold trim. BABY PAU The final letter is missing. Harley’s hand enters the frame again, brush poised mid-air. Fresh teal paint glistens at the tip as she begins the final stroke. Slow. Careful. She paints the “L.” The color matches perfectly. The gold trim catches the light. The paint is still wet, glossy, with visible brush texture along the unfinished edge. She leans back to admire her work. The chair sits inside a storage unit—metal walls dulled with age, concrete floor cold beneath it. Stacked cardboard boxes loom in the background, half-lost in shadow. Faded stenciled labels read: TOYS CLOTHS EXTRA The warm overhead bulb hums softly, casting a nostalgic glow that feels almost gentle—too gentle—for the utilitarian space it illuminates. Harley sets the brush down. She reaches for her phone, then a small stack of books, and a colorful art box—bright plastic edges peeking out as she tucks everything neatly into her vivid pink baby bag. The zipper hums closed. A metal door screeches open. Then closes. The sound echoes. The final image lingers: The back of the freshly painted chair. Perfectly centered.  Perfectly finished.  

Looks like she's finally going native. 🤭 She may tell herself she's just playing the part, but the longer this goes on, the more this will become her new "normal". 😈

Metallica - Metal Militia (Remastered)   

I have been trying ut for maybe a month now, to use more natural things and you may want to look up Magnesium Glycinate I was taking a form of sleeping pills for a number of yrs, and I have been able to cut it in half with only one of the 200mg caps a night and I am ready to cut out the prescription one all together..this really helps me get sleep, and I was insomniac for a bunch of yrs, I went up to double hrs of sleep with this..

I bet some of the staff got hit with nanites, especially ones that spoke against the establishment