Morning rose over the villa—or what remained of it—with all the dignity of a hangover. Smoke curled lazily through the shattered skylight. Somewhere, a lonely waffle iron crackled, muttering, "I was made for better things."
Rico stirred first, brushing off crumbs and pride alike. "We survived… barely." He looked around, eyes red-rimmed but defiant. "But did we win?"
Lucien, wrapped in a makeshift toga of dish towels, stretched luxuriously upon the counter as if modeling survival itself. "Darling, in war, there are no winners. Only those who emerge fabulous."
The Air Fryer stood among the ruins, faintly glowing. "The era of sogginess is over. The Age of Crisp begins."
Shen, his hair now permanently fluffed into an aura of fryer-static, nodded gravely. "It was foretold. The Crispening cleanses not by soap, but by convection."
Mint Chip—reconstituted somewhat, now a sad milkshake in a measuring cup—whimpered. "You keep saying 'cleanses' and I'm still sticky."
