“Just when I think it can’t get weirder, it does,” you grumble as you fly through the air, clinging to a scarlet macaw’s leg. The parrot has also been grumbling this entire trip. All its cracks about your weight have tanked your self-esteem, which was already suffering from, you know, having to rely on a bird you don’t even like. When you see a swimming pool below, you hesitate only a moment before releasing the parrot’s leg, banking on my assurances that you won’t die in this story and forgetting that I have let you get injured multiple times now.

Ouch. Hitting the water from that height has to hurt. Especially since you have a horrible sunburn.

“I what?” you shriek when you break the surface, spluttering water. You’re as red as a lobster, in part from the impact, in part from severe sunburn. When will you learn to apply sunscreen before you go out during the day? Well, I guess you won’t have to worry about that much longer, if all goes well in this chapter.

“Y/n! You’re back! Thank goodness! BTS is in trouble!”

So much for that.

Freytag is an iridescent blur whirling around your head, her frantic roars sending ripples across the water as you swim toward the edge of the pool. You debate about asking for more information and decide against it. Knowledge is power, but you’re pretty sure nothing will make sense until you see what’s happening for yourself. So, you climb out of the pool in your soaked clothing, at which point you recall you’re in a chibi leather bodysuit—that still fits. Huh. Isn’t spandex a wonderful thing?

A white deposit from above hits the pavement before you. You glare up at the parrot, which you really should call by its name, Plan O.

“Rrawk! Get moving, stupid, or your boyfriend is dead meat! Rrawk!”

“I will end you,” you growl at the pesky bird, refusing to give it the satisfaction of even thinking its name.

“Y/n! Hurry!”

Freytag zips inside, and you follow her at a run, imagining one terrible scenario after another. Is a drunk ostrich chasing him? Has animal control found out his shots are overdue? Is he in a giant beehive, covered in honey and struggling to breathe? Or is the problem vegetable instead of animal? In this story, who knows?

“Where is my son?” an angry feminine voice shouts. The sound is muffled by a heavy oak door with intricate carvings of elephants—wait. You’ve seen that door before. You’ve seen these massive marble halls with gold fixtures before. It can’t be…

Freytag stops and hovers in front of the elephant door. You take a deep breath and step into… yep. This is BTS’ bedroom. He’s nowhere to be seen, but Ricotta is here, back at full size and looking like Barbie’s evil twin. She’s facing off against a woman who can’t be over five feet tall and who would have to eat McDonald’s for at least a month to hit one hundred pounds, and she looks like she wants to crawl under a rock and hide. The petite, generic Asian woman is more intimidating than any character you’ve encountered in this story so far. Why shouldn’t she be? She is a mother after all.

“Where is he?” she demands of Ricotta. “What have you done to him?”

“H-he’s in a safe place…”

“Safe? Safe? With you? He’s been in danger every minute of every day since he met you!”

“That isn’t true! He was never in any danger until she came along!” Ricotta stabs a finger in your direction. “She’s the real problem! She’s ruining everything!”

You bristle at Ricotta’s accusations and open your mouth, but Mrs. Hunk glances over her shoulder at you and beats you to the punch. Literally.

“Ow! That was mean!” Ricotta whines, rubbing her right jaw. There’s a big purple bruise on her left jaw from your punch last night. Now she’ll have a matching set.

“That was nothing compared to what you deserve. I know all about your little stunt at that graduation party, honey. You think the mafia has eyes and ears everywhere? It has nothing on the Concerned Mothers Network. Your own mother told me I should have you locked up for that, and I would have if BTS hadn’t begged me to give you a second chance. Well, you’ve had your second chance, and your third, and your fourth, and this is it! I’m done with you! The engagement is off! Tell me where my son is, or I’ll have you shipped off to a psych ward so fast—”

“No! He and I are meant to be! We’re fated! Nothing can tear us apart! And you’re not even a werewolf, so what can you do to me? I’m not scared of you!”

You notice two things while watching this exchange. First, Ricotta is hugging her phone to her chest and backing away, and second, Mrs. Hunk looks like she’s about to go through the roof. And then she does. In an instant, the little Asian lady with her black hair in a tight bun bursts into flames and blasts through the ceiling, and the next ceiling, and the roof, creating a hole straight up to the clear blue sky. You and Ricotta gape at it for a moment. Then Mrs. Hunk rushes back through the hole and lands in Super Saiyan mode, bun still intact. The plush Persian rug is smoking under her modest black flats.

“Where did you think BTS’ fire magic came from?” she roars in a voice that makes Freytag dive under the bed for cover.

Ricotta takes another step backward. “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m a cyber mage, and—”

Mrs. Hunk laughs. “Cyber magic? Oh, honey, I have news for you. I’m a fire mage, and I’m gonna melt your circuits!”

“Wait!” you intervene. “The phone!”

“You can’t have it!” Ricotta turns and bolts for the bathroom, for all the good that will do her. You race after her and tackle her next to the jacuzzi. Her phone goes flying. You scramble to your feet, jabbing your elbow into her throat to keep her down, and by the power of your stacked werewolf and vampire speed boosts, you grab the phone before it hits the floor. What you see on the screen confirms your worst fears.

“You trapped BTS in Stardew Valley?” you shriek.

“I wouldn’t have if you’d just stayed there like you were supposed to!”

Well, that explains that.

Mrs. Hunk hauls Ricotta to her feet and slams her into the wall. “Get him out of there!”

“I can’t! Er… I… don’t know how… But I’ll figure it out! I will! And then he and I will be together forever, and—”

Mrs. Hunk lets loose a wordless scream, and the next thing you know, she and Ricotta disappear inside an enormous ball of dust. You hear thuds, crashes, screams, shouts, and yelps. An occasional extremity or censored word pops out of the dust ball and gets sucked back into it. If you weren’t staring at a pixelated BTS lying flat on his back in Stardew Valley’s character creation screen, you would enjoy the show. But he isn’t responding to you, and he has Xs for eyes.

“Y/n! Do something!” Freytag urges you, having emerged from hiding now that Mrs. Hunk is fixated on beating up Ricotta.

“I’m trying!”

Unlike your stint in the character creation screen, you can jump around and choose which variable you want to change this time, and you can go back and update anything you don’t like. Not that it matters. BTS is still lying there, unconscious, regardless of what you do to his hair or outfit. The only thing you haven't tried is typing his name, farm name, and favorite thing into the corresponding boxes. The name is easy enough. What do you call his farm, though? Is there a way you can use this to get through to him?

“Come Home Farm,” you type. “What’s his favorite thing?”

Freytag rolls her eyes. “Do you really have to ask?”

It makes you cringe, but the situation is desperate. You type ‘Y/n’ into the box.

“Ack!”

And then BTS lands in your lap, still unconscious, now wearing a cowboy hat, a cow-print vest, chaps, and boots. Interesting fashion choices there, Y/n.

“My darling!” Ricotta cries, emerging from the dust ball looking much the worse for wear. A fiery hand reaches out and yanks her back in for further pummeling.

“BTS! Wake up! Why isn’t he waking up? Why is his skin green?” You’re slapping and pinching his cheeks and shaking his shoulders, but nothing rouses him.

“Uh oh…”

“What?” you ask Freytag. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Has he been in contact with silver recently?”

“I don’t know! Why would I know that? Wait, let me think…” Your eyes widen. “In chapter two. His chef served us food on silver platters.”

The dust ball dissipates. Mrs. Hunk freezes, one hand wrapped around Ricotta’s neck, the other curled into a fist and ready to land another blow. “What? Not faux silver?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It was shiny and silver. Why?”

“Werewolveth are allergic to thilver,” Ricotta lisps, her speech hampered by a few missing teeth. She’s also sporting two black eyes, and she’s bald except for an occasional stump of smoldering blonde hair. “BTth doethn’t keep real thilver in hith houthe.”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” you protest. “That was a few days ago, and my food was on a silver platter, too. I’m a werewolf and a vampire. Shouldn’t I… ugh…”

Freytag flies in frantic circles above you as you collapse on top of BTS. “Mrs. Hunk! Help! Y/n’s sick, too!”

Mrs. Hunk throws one last punch at Ricotta and rushes to your side. “Y/n! Y/n, can you hear me?”

“I’m sick, not deaf. What’s the cure for this?”

“There is no cure at this stage. It’s a slow-acting poison. If we’d known earlier, we could have done something, but now…”

“Rrawk! You’ve really done it this time! You’re doomed for sure! Rrawk!”

“Who let that in?” you mumble. “Isn’t it enough that I’m dying?”

“We need to get them into the sauna!” Freytag says. “The sauna is where it all began, and it's where it all has to end, too!”

“Rrawk! I deserve a raise! Rrawk!”

Mrs. Hunk drags BTS into the sauna, and the parrot grabs your hair and follows. You’re too miserable to be embarrassed, but seeing the state in which Mrs. Hunk left Ricotta gives you some small satisfaction. Ricotta is slumped against the wall with stars and twittering birds circling her head. You would prefer twittering birds to the parrot’s claws in your scalp. You would prefer anything to the parrot.

“What now?” Mrs. Hunk asks Freytag.

“Now, we all leave so they can have a moment together.”

“We can skip the moment,” you interject. “I’d rather not risk dying for a moment.”

“Rrawk! Haven’t you watched any movies, dummy? Rrawk!”

“I will fry you to a crisp, boil you in a stew, and serve you to a bunch of rabid raccoons.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Hunk asks.

“Oh, I’m sure. I’m more than sure. I’m—”

“No, I was talking to the dragon.”

“Well, we were shooting for a victory instead of a catastrophe, but I think I can work with this,” Freytag muses. “The only way to save them is to transport them to reality. They just have to say the magic words.”

“What are the magic words?” you ask.

“Reality? My baby is going to reality?” Mrs. Hunk throws herself on her son’s motionless body, sobbing.

“Well, it’s that or he dies…” Freytag tells her.

“What are the magic words?” you repeat.

Mrs. Hunk releases BTS with a sniffle. “I suppose it’s for the best. He’ll be out of the mafia, away from Ricotta, and starting his new life with his fated mate.” She gives you a watery smile. “Take care of him for me. If you don’t, I’ll know. The CMN is an interdimensional, multiversal organization.”

“Um… yeah, sure. I promise,” you say, but you’re thinking, If I survive this. Making a mental note to Google the Concerned Mothers Network if I do… And I should probably call my mother when I get back. Also, what is the magic word?

Mrs. Hunk and Freytag leave, and you lie there in the sweltering humidity, wondering about magic words and reality. You’ve been trying to get back to reality since this story started, but you don’t know what to expect. You don’t know if you have any family or friends who are waiting for you. What if you’re a criminal? What if you’re an invalid and this is your subconscious escape from your boring, miserable life? All you can remember is reading web novels. Is it worth going back?

“Mm… Y/n?”

Your attention snaps to BTS as he sits upright. He rubs his head and looks down at you. His brow furrows.

“Um… I guess you’ve done red and purple skin before, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but… Is green your new thing?”

“No, I’m dying of silver poisoning, you jerk, and so are you.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Your chef served us food on real silver.”

“We’re dying?”

“Unless we can come up with the magic words so Freytag can get us through the catastrophe to the resolution.”

“We’re dying?”

“Yes! For the third time, yes! We’re dying! This is it! We’re done for! It’s been fun, but so long! Rest in peace and all that! I never got to launch my new fashion line, or write the check to get Luna back into school, or call the police on all the people who need arresting, or set up an education system for Empty-head’s pack, or kiss you—”

He hauls you onto his lap and kisses you.

Your mind goes blank. You’re still too weak to move, but why would you want to? His lips are warm and soft against yours, and his strong arms are holding you against his firm, muscular chest, and all in all, this isn’t a bad way to go. You don’t even mind the thousand violins filling the air and breaking multiple laws of physics. Is there really room in this sauna for two adults and a thousand unmanned violins? Who cares?

Mrs. Hunk opens the glass door and lets Freytag inside. “Send me a postcard!”

“You did it!” Freytag crows, a metallic streak zipping in and out of the violins and floating red hearts. “Finally! Now, say the magic words!”

“Um… I don’t want to be a cliché?” BTS asks.

“I hate tropes?” you try.

Freytag groans. “Come on, you two! This entire story has been preparing you for this moment! What are the magic words?”

You and BTS look at each other. What else could it be?

“Deploy Plan P!”

Bingo.