Jackson barely had time to chuck his phone under the pillow before his firs elemental of a mother—Dr. Sydney Jekyll-Hyde (Formerly Sydney Burns before marriage), PhD in "Things That Should Not Exist But Do Anyway"—pushed open the door with her elbow. She balanced a tray of suspiciously smoking waffles (his dad's specialty) in one hand. "Morning, Jackie baby! I brought breakfast and—" Her gaze zeroed in on his inside out sweater and singed bangs. "Oh sweet Tesla coils, *again*?"
Jackson resisted the urge to dive out the window. "Just—uh. Bad hair day?"
His mother just looked at him, eyebrow arched like a vampire's coffin lid. The smoking waffles smelled suspiciously of ozone and regret—classic Dad cuisine. "Jackie," she sighed, nudging Crossfade off his shoulder with the tray. "Bad hair days don't usually involve *actual fire.*"
Jackson tugged self-consciously at his singed bangs. "Could be worse," he muttered. "Could be Holt's hair."
Sydney's lips twitched. "Mm. True. That boy's gel budget me and your father give him could fund a small nation." She set the tray down, waffles still crackling with faint blue flames. Jackson stared—had Mom *accidentally* triggered Holt again?—but his mother just rolled her eyes. "Relax, Jackie. It's cinnamon. Probably." She nudged his knee. "So. Your *hair*."
Jackson groaned, slumping forward. "I panicked. Heath's stupid bonfire got too loud—"
"Ah. The *bonfire*." Sydney's smirk was dangerously knowing. "The one Holt *totally* didn't attend, right? Because *Jackson Jonathan Jekyll* would *never*." She flicked his forehead. "Sweetie, you've got Hyde written all over you. Literally." She tapped his shoulder where Holt's fire brand tattoos peeked beneath his collar.
Jackson's fingers dug into the waffles—still sparking faintly—as his mother's knowing smirk burned hotter than the elemental cinnamon. "Mom, I swear, it wasn't—"
"Jackie." Sydney plucked a charred waffle chunk off his sleeve. "Sweetie, you're *literally* branded. Holt's emo phase tattoos don't just *appear* unless he's been out." She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Unless you've secretly joined a band and *shockingly* kept it from me—"
"Mom." Jackson shoved the waffle into his mouth—bad idea, it was still crackling with embers—and winced as the cinnamon sparks singed his tongue. "Can we *not* do this? I have this thing in—"
Sydney Jekyll snapped her fingers. A half melted cassette tape—*Holt's* mixtape, because of course he left physical evidence—slid from Jackson's pocket with a theatrical clatter. "Oh, *dramatic*." She scooped it up, squinting at the Sharpie scrawled label: *DJ Hyde's Fire Mix (Track 12 will make you cumbust)*. "Jackie, honey, we need to talk about Holt's branding choices."
Jackson groaned, slumping back against his pillow. "Mom, I swear, I didn't—"
"—know about any if this? *Liar.*" Sydney plucked the melted cassette from his lap, dangling it between two fingers like contaminated evidence. The Sharpie scrawled *DJ Hyde's Fire Mix* label curled at the edges, still faintly smoking. Jackson swallowed another cinnamon-sparked groan—*thanks, Holt*—as his mother grabbed Holt's iCoffin off the nightstand and hit play.
The bassline kicked in instantly. Jackson barely had time to lunge for the volume before the first pyrotechnic synth drop exploded through the speakers.
"Mom, *wait*—!"
Too late. The bass thrummed through his ribs like a struck match, heat licking up his spine—Jackson gasped as his vision fractured into prismatic fire. His left hand spasmed mid-reach, fingers curling as ink-black flames erupted from his shoulder tattoos, consuming his sweater in seconds. Crossfade launched off the bed with a startled chirp, scales flashing panic-red as Jackson's voice warped mid-protest.
Then.
Black out.
--------
Sydney barely blinked as her son's posture snapped straight, shoulders rolling back with theatrical flair. Holt Hyde grinned through the lingering smoke, stretching his arms above his head like a cat waking from a nap. "Well *hello*, Momster." His voice was all gravel and glitter, a stark contrast to Jackson's nervous rasp. He wiggled his fingers at Crossfade, who'd flattened himself against the wall in alarm. "Relax, Scales. The Holtster's home."
Sydney crossed her arms. "Holt Harold Hyde."
"Ooooh, full government name." Holt pressed a hand to his chest, a bit scared now that his mom was busting out his full name. "What'd Jackie do this time? Steal my gel again?" He leaned against the dresser, smirking as Crossfade finally crept closer, scales shifting to a cautious yellow green. "Or wait—did he actually *use* my mixtape? Because that's just tragic. My beats deserve better than his sad little earbuds."
Sydney crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Holt Harold Hyde, we *talked* about you leaving scorch marks on the ceiling fan." She gestured to the blackened blades still faintly smoking above them.
Holt grinned, twirling a lock of gel-stiffened hair around his finger. "What can I say? Your boy's got *flare*." He flopped onto Jackson's bed, kicking his boots up on the singed pillow. "Soooo. What's the sitch, Momster? Jackie finally confess his undying love for Frankie's neck bolts?"
Sydney snatched Holt's wrist mid-air before he could snap his fingers—likely to summon more pyrotechnics. "No more *flare*, DJ. We're having a *conversation*." Her voice dropped into that terrifyingly calm tone Holt recognized as *The I Will Turn On My Flames And Ground You For A Century* voice.
Holt groaned, rolling onto his stomach and kicking his legs like a petulant bat. "*Ugh*, fine. But can we at least make it dramatic? Maybe add some ominous thunder? Or—" He wiggled his eyebrows. "—a *dun dun DUN* sound effect?"
Sydney flicked his forehead. "Holt."
"*Fine.*" He flopped onto his back, arms splayed. "Hit me with the *serious talk*, Momster. But fair warning—" He shot her a grin all teeth and mischief. "—I retain the right to dramatically gasp and / or faint."
Sydney exhaled through her nose—a skill honed from centuries of parenting a hybrid disaster. "First. *Explain*." She held up the half-melted cassette. "*Track 12 will make you cumbust?*"
Holt snatched it back, inspecting the label with mock offense. "*Combust*, Mom. *Combust.* It's a *pun*. Jackie's the one who can't spell—" He paused, squinting. "*Wait.* Did he *edit* my mixtape? Because *that* is a federal crime."
Sydney pinched the bridge of her nose. "Holt. Focus."
"*Fine.*" He shoved the tape into his pocket, then smirked. "But *hypothetically*, if Jackie *did* sneak into my DJ notes and *hypothetically* scribble over my genius with his *tragic* normie chicken scratch—" He gasped, clutching his chest. "*Oh my ghoul*, that's *sibling abuse*."
"Holt."
"*Fine!*" He flopped backward, arms splaying dramatically. "But you *gotta* admit—" He wiggled his fingers at the ceiling fan's charred remains. "*Iconic* lighting design."
Sydney's eyebrow twitched. "*Holt Harold Hyde—*"
"—*Middle name's redundant*, Momster. *Harold's* already tragic enough." Holt rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands. "C'mon, hit me with the *serious talk*. Just *promise* me it's not another *'I need to reconcile with myself after wahat happened before we moved here.'*" He wiggled his fingers in air quotes. "*Because Jackie's diary entries are* ***so*** *not my aesthetic.*"
Sydney's sigh carried the weight of a thousand parental disappointments. She tossed the melted mixtape onto the bed beside him—Track 12's label now clearly defaced with Jackson's scrawl (*Will NOT make you combust (probably).
Sydney leveled with Holt with a look that could've petrified even Deuce and his mom Medusa herself. "Alright, DJ." She flicked the half-melted cassette with one claw. "Let's talk about *Track 12*—and before you ask, no, I will *not* provide ominous lightning effects for your *villain origin story monologue*."
Holt gasped, clutching his chest like she'd stabbed him. "*Momster.* You wound me." He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet like a disgruntled vampire bat. "First you *drag* me into the most boring intervention ever, *then* you *deny* me my *cinematic ambience*?" He flung an arm over his forehead. "*The injustice.*"
Sydney snatched the pillow from under his dramatic sprawl and whacked him with it. "*Focus.*" A feather escaped the pillowcase—Holt caught it between two fingers and grinned as it instantly singed into ash. Sydney sighed. "*Holt. This isn't Victorian London, and I'm not some baffled lawyer chasing your 'mysterious connection' to Jackie. I know that you and Jackie are two sides of the same coin—"*
"*Ugh,* Momster, *please.*" Holt flopped onto his back, kicking his legs like a petulant gargoyle. "*So* not the vibe. Next you'll be monologuing about *'suppressed desires'* and *'duality of man.'*" He rolled his eyes so hard his eyebrow ring nearly caught fire. "*Boring.*"
Sydney just sighed, "Fine then, if you want to stonewall me, then you're grounded for sneaking out and partially burning your room again."
"What?!" Holt cried out, leaping up from the bed like a startled vampire bat. "Momster, you *can't* ground me—that's a *crime* against *artistic expression*!" He gestured dramatically to the singed ceiling fan, its blades still faintly smoking. "*This* was a *statement*. A *metaphor*. Like... uh..." He snapped his fingers, sparks flying. "*The duality of man*—except way cooler because *arson*."
Sydney crossed her arms, unimpressed. "*D.J., you set the ceiling fan on fire.* Again. That's not a *metaphor*, that's a *hazard.*" She snatched the mixtape from his fingers before he could flick another spark at it. "*And stop trying to distract me with pyrotechnics. You're grounded until you and Jackie's next lunar cycle.*"
Holt gasped like she'd just canceled Halloween. "*Momster,* you can't *do* this to me! I've got *commitments*!"
Sydney just began to leave the room unimpressed, "Then you'll just have to explain to those people why you can't uphold those *commitments*." The door clicked shut with finality.