The moon retreated.

  Not in a slow, cinematic way. More like it got a text from its ex and remembered it had standards.

  One second it was there, casting its judgmental silver glow over Ren's terrible life choices— choices so bad they made raccoons in dumpsters look like Nobel laureates— and the next— poof. Gone.

  Like a college dropout at a family reunion.

  Or a vegan at a BBQ rib festival.

  Ren didn't.

  Because Ren had the self-preservation instincts of a goldfish in a blender. If common sense was a currency, he'd be bartering with lint and expired coupons. His mental bank account was so overdraft, even the IRS would've sent a "thoughts and prayers" card.

  And just then, something— or someone— smacked him in the back of his head.

  "OW— "

  The sound echoed through the empty night like a bad joke in a silent room. Or like a whoopee cushion at a funeral.

  Ren spun around, fists raised, ready to throw hands with whatever cosmic entity had the audacity to sneak-attack him like a middle school bully. Or a disgruntled barista who'd just been asked for oat milk in a venti pumpkin spice existential dread.

  Nothing.

  Just the wind blowing like a sadboi. (Which, for the record, could also be interpreted as the wind ROFL'ing. Or possibly having an existential crisis. The wind had layers. Like a parfait of despair. Or an onion that cried itself to sleep.)

  But when he looked down, he saw...

  ...a scroll.

  Not just any scroll. Oh no.

  That would be too easy.

  This scroll had drama. The kind of drama that gets its own reality show spin-off before the first season even airs.

  Cold air rushed in like it was auditioning for a horror movie. The shadows twisted like they were trying to vogue. Or maybe twerk. Shadows are notoriously bad at committing to bit. The scent of old parchment and static electricity filled the area, which was impressive because Ren was REKT, and also, since when did electricity have a smell?

  Was this the work of haunted AAA batteries? The kind that power your TV remote for 10 years just to die during the season finale of your comfort show?

  The paper was aged, brittle, and smelled faintly of burnt hair. Like the ghost of a barbershop caught on fire. Or like someone tried to microwave a toupee.

  Or like Elon Musk's first attempt at a hair transplant.

  Ren hesitated, then slowly unrolled the scroll. As one does, when clearly cursed ancient paper appears in your personal space. (Which, for Ren, was basically every Tuesday at this point. Wednesdays were for haunted IKEA furniture. Thursdays? Demonically possessed smoothie blenders.)

  In a barely readable handwriting of an almost microscopic size— because the universe loves petty inconveniences— it read:

  [MISSION: Retrieve the Five Wigs of the Trans-Yokai

  REWARD: Temporary Extension of Soul Collection Deadline.

  ON FAILURE: Immediate Termination of the Contract, leading to the Contractee's Death.]

  ...Yeah, the SAME scroll which started all this BS. The scroll equivalent of that one friend who "forgets" to Venmo you for pizza... for three years.

  He almost heard it laugh at him. The paper crackled with the smugness of cosmic bureaucracy. Like a DMV employee who just denied your existence on a technicality.

  Or a chatbot that responds "LOL" to your cry for help. (Ouch)

  Below all that text, however, there was something scribbled hurriedly— probably by the same entity that writes passive-aggressive Post-it notes in shared apartments. The kind that say "Eat my yogurt again and I'll replace your shampoo with engine oil <3"

  Ren squinted his eyes as much as he could (which, given his sleep schedule, wasn't much), and read under the caressing moonlight:

  [Time Left: 13 days, 1 hour]

  Ren's soul rage-quit the chat. His spirit animal— a raccoon with a caffeine addiction— facepalmed so hard it knocked over a trash can.

  "OH CRAP!"

  And then, Ren did the most rational thing ever done in the dumb, DUMB history of humanity.

  He whipped out his phone.

  Not to call for help.

  Not to Google "how to un-curse yourself."

  No.

  He refreshed the panel to search for Wi-Fi around.

  Because if he was going to die, he was at least gonna check his notifications first. (Priorities, people. Can't let the group chat think you ghosted them.)

  After an eternity of buffering— longer than Ren's attention span, longer than his last relationship, longer than the runtime of the Snyder Cut— the panel showed ONE Wi-Fi with surprisingly good strength.

  It was named...

  'English or Spanish?'

  Ren froze. (He had to. The sheer audacity of this Wi-Fi name demanded a moment of silence. And possibly a restraining order.)

  But still, he muttered:

  "...bruh, ancient."

  (The Wi-Fi password was probably "password" in hieroglyphics.)

  Suddenly, a voice yelled behind him:

  ||GAY!||

  Before Ren could turn back, however, he blacked out.

  Not from the insult. Not from the sheer randomness. But because the universe had the comedic timing of a drunk clown with a sledgehammer. Or a TikTok algorithm that serves you funeral ads after you binge-watch My Little Pony at 3 a.m.

  ~~~

  Ren woke up, his back aching like it had beef with him. Like it had filed a restraining order from the rest of his spine. His vertebrae were in a group chat titled "F*** This Guy".

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It was morning.

  Or at least, something pretending to be morning. The light had the aggressive cheer of a caffeine-addicted motivational speaker. Or a kindergarten teacher on her fourth Red Bull.

  He saw a sign in front of him.

  The sign said "Sacred Enlightenment Milk – A Sip Unlocks Inner Truths" in Comic Sans. The font of choice for cult leaders and middle-school bake sale flyers.

  Ren stared at it like it had personally insulted his ancestors. The font alone gave him a mild spiritual rash. His third eye started itching.

  He mumbled:

  "It's in a mason jar. That's never a good sign."

  (Mason jars: for people who think storing kombucha counts as a personality.)

  The jar glowed faintly. The milk inside had the consistency of guilt and a slightly off-white color that screamed, "You're gonna regret this" in lactose. It was the dairy equivalent of a backhanded compliment from your mother-in-law.

  It wobbled when he picked it up, like even the dairy wasn't sure it deserved to exist. It made a sad little gurgle, the sound a bottle makes when it knows it's about to be the villain in someone's digestive autobiography. It smelled faintly of vanilla, regret, and unspoken family trauma. The kind of trauma that gets awkwardly referenced at Thanksgiving.

  There was something suspiciously floaty about it. Like it had started fermenting, then gave up halfway through to pursue an art degree. Ren half-expected it to ask him for a cigarette and critique his life choices.

  Naturally, Ren chugged it.

  Obviously. (It's Ren!)

  Because if trauma's taught him anything, it's that when life gives you cursed dairy, you sip first and scream later. And maybe live-tweet the aftermath.

  The moment it hit his tongue, Ren made a noise that could only be described as regret in high definition. Dolby Atmos shame. Like a soap opera scream dubbed over a blender. With auto-tune. And a bass drop.

  "Why does it taste like betrayal and expired enlightenment???"

  The aftertaste was 90% existential dread, 10% Splenda mixed with varnish.

  It hit his stomach like a passive-aggressive bomb. One that left Yelp reviews. The kind that says "1 star, but only because I can't rate zero." "The ambiance was trauma. The service? Questionable."

  His guts did a somersault.

  His brain glitched.

  And then— boom.

  Reality yeeted itself sideways. Like it rage-quit being normal. And enrolled in a community college to "find itself."

  ~~~

  Ren blinked.

  Then blinked again. Was he dead? Was this what dairy-based purgatory looked like? Doomed to an eternity of lactose intolerance and cryptic Instagram affirmations?

  Now he was in... a field?

  Of sunflowers.

  No, wait— sunflowers with motivational quotes on every petal. Each one whispered things like:

  "Smile through the existential crisis!"

  "Toxic positivity is just aggressive denial with better lighting!"

  "Your aura is problematic but we stan anyway!"

  One particularly sassy flower added, "You're not ugly, you're just poor!"

  The petals glistened with morning dew and emotional manipulation. One of them winked at him. Another blew a glitter-filled kiss. Ren's allergies flared. Not from pollen— from pettiness.

  He looked down.

  He was wearing a rainbow-colored crop top.

  It said #HealingVibesOnly in pastel pink glitter.

  The font was Papyrus.

  Because of course it was.

  There were sequins. There were rhinestones. It sparkled like someone bedazzled shame. A shame so loud it could be seen from space.

  And it was two sizes too small, because the universe has no chill. Or mercy. Or a decent tailor.

  Ren's dignity had packed its bags and left without a forwarding address around fifteen chapters earlier. It probably choked, wherever it was.

  "Oh hell no."

  A riddle floated by on a cloud of sage smoke. Literally floated. Like it was late for yoga. Or early for a juice cleanse.

  It read:

  "What's always in front of you but can't be seen?"

  A normal person might say "the future."

  Ren, currently five spoonfuls into a yogurt-induced metaphysical spiral, said:

  "Debt?" "My will to live?" "The plot of Tenet?"

  The sky applauded. Not politely.

  More like "You tried" energy. The claps had sarcasm. One cloud slow-clapped like a disappointed dad.

  Then, a new hallucination waltzed in.

  A giant floating phone screen, livestreaming a panel of influencer-looking ghosts arguing over the ethics of good vibes. They hovered midair like spiritual clout chasers. Their followers were all bots, and their engagement rates were as fake as their eyelashes.

  @SpiritualSlayQueen: "Toxic positivity is the real demon here. Like, just cry in peace, babe."

  @GuruBro69: "Nah, crying's a vibe, but only if it's content. Hashtag Monetize Your Meltdown."

  @SoulDaddy420: "Y'all are missing the point— if your chakras aren't branded, do you even exist?" @GhostInTheMachine: "Deadass, I'd haunt for a collab."

  Ren stared, horrified.

  "This is Hell. This is influencer hell."

  (Where every tweet, ladies and gentelemen, is a humblebrag and every selfie requires three hours of lighting adjustments.)

  The screen briefly paused to buffer. Even hallucinated Wi-Fi was unreliable. The loading wheel spun like a cursed roulette.

  Then the cloud glitched and turned into a new puzzle.

  Just a pedestal.

  With a big, red button on top.

  Labeled in bold:

  "DO NOT PRESS."

  Ren squinted.

  "Is this a trap?"

  And pressed it anyway.

  Obviously.

  Because self-control is for people who are not wearing crop tops made of existential dread. And Ren's impulse control had left the chat circa 2016.

  The pedestal disappeared.

  The ground opened like a PowerPoint transition gone rogue.

  He fell.

  Again.

  Oh boy was he used to falling by now. If falling were an Olympic sport, he'd have a gold medal and a broken tibia.

  He was expecting to crash land any second now.

  And he crashed.

  Again.

  'Cuz landings are for people with dignity. And functioning knee cartilage. And insurance. Ren had none of those. Just a library fine from 2014 and a Netflix subscription he kept meaning to cancel.

  ~~~

  When he hit bottom, it was dark.

  Too dark.

  Like "therapy appointment you didn't know you needed" dark. Or the inside of a goth's soul.

  Then—

  Lights.

  Fluorescent and judgmental. The kind of lighting that exposes your pores and your deepest regrets.

  Ren squinted through the glowing anxiety. His fight-or-flight reflex had already filed for resignation. It was now working part-time at a coffee shop and writing poetry.

  But then, he observed that...

  He was surrounded.

  By mannequins.

  Hundreds of them. Lifeless. Soulless.

  All wearing different versions of his past bad fashion choices. The mannequins had better posture than Ren's self-esteem.

  Crocs.

  Hoodies with anime quotes. "It's not a phase, Mom!" (It was a phase.)

  That one phase with the fauxhawk. A crime against hairdressing.

  God.

  There was even one in cargo shorts over skinny jeans.

  A war crime. (IKR! IMMA SUE HIM!) [The Hague is still investigating.]

  One wore a fedora labeled "Nice Guy Energy."

  Another held a kazoo. He didn't know why, but it felt personal. The kazoo hummed "Never Gonna Give You Up" off-key.

  Psychological warfare.

  Each one held something.

  Middle. School. Report. Cards. The academic equivalent of a burn book.

  They began... slow clapping.

  Ren fell to his knees.

  "No. Please. Not the seventh-grade science fair recap. I was allergic to baking soda, okay??"

  (His volcano model had erupted... with slime)

  One mannequin whispered:

  "Effort: Below Expectations."

  Another hissed:

  "Social Skills: ‘Talks too much, cries when corrected.'"

  Ren sobbed. Tears: 100% organic, gluten-free, non-GMO suffering.

  The mannequins clapped louder.

  The sound echoed like petty ghosts applauding your downfall. One tossed confetti made of shredded self-esteem.

  Slow, rhythmic, and painful.

  One mannequin tossed glitter.

  (Rude.)

  Another held up a laminated detention slip like it was a Grammy.

  Acceptance speech: "I'd like to thank my crippling anxiety..."

  Ren screamed.

  Not out of fear.

  Out of sheer, glitter-fueled exhaustion. The kind that comes from being roasted by spectral mannequins with better posture. And better skincare routines.

  "I get it! I peaked in eighth grade! Let me goooooo— "

  Then—

  A creak.

  A door opened at the far end of the hall.

  Ren wiped his tears with the corner of his crop top (tragic), staggered to his feet, and limped toward freedom. Every step squeaked slightly. Emotional damage has acoustics. The soundtrack of his life was a sad trombone.

  The exit glowed softly. A comforting hum filled the air. It sounded like a dishwasher humming passive-aggressively. Or a Roomba plotting revenge.

  He stepped through—

  — and froze.

  A kitchen?

  No, not JUST a kitchen.

  A battle kitchen.

  Massive. Stainless steel walls. Industrial ovens lined up like tanks. Counters glistening with bloodless menace. A butcher block bigger than his trauma. Gordon Ramsay's sleep paralysis demon designed this.

  This was Iron Chef meets Hellraiser. It reeked of smoked paprika and generational curses. The spice rack included "Ghost Pepper of Regret" and "Cayenne of Broken Promises."

  There was a fridge.

  It growled.

  Loudly.

  Like it wanted to eat him. Or at least demand rent. It had the energy of a landlord who texts in all caps.

  The temperature dropped. Somewhere, a spatula sparked. A ladle levitated ominously. The toaster muttered in Latin. Badly.

  The fridge door creaked open an inch.

  Inside? Darkness.

  And maybe Satan. Or worse: a food critic.

  Ren stepped back.

  Then whispered:

  "...I swear to Gordon Ramsay, if I have to fight my trauma in a cooking challenge— "

  (His signature dish was regret flambe.)

  The fridge rumbled louder. A single chili pepper rolled ominously across the floor. It was the Scoville equivalent of a middle finger.

  A single, glowing aproned figure emerged from the shadows, wielding a whisk like a weapon. Its aura screamed sous-chef of doom. The apron read "Kiss the Cook... Or Else."

  Their eyes blazed.

  Their voice was smoke and seasoning.

  ||Welcome to Kitchen Purgatory, bitch. Let's cook.||