"…of the burn," she declared, locking eyes with Zeke, who instinctively clutched his diaphragm as if her emotional clarity had sucker-punched his spleen.
Shen gasped, then immediately fanned Ava with his kimono, which now read "Trust the Flame, Not the Trauma."
Clarissa knelt. "She hath sauced herself," she whispered reverently, dabbing mango reduction like war paint onto her own cheeks. "The Rite is upon us."
The crowd followed suit.
One by one, they approached the Syrup Altar, each bruncher confronting their unresolved narratives and garnishing accordingly.
Flynn chose the Blueberry "No More Situationships" Glaze, whispering, "I block now, not just emotionally, but digitally." He smeared it onto his pancake like a man scrubbing out his Bumble history.
Lady Summers, ever composed, selected the Maple Boundaries with the elegance of a woman who once broke off an engagement via legally notarized haiku. "This," she said, "pairs well with assertiveness and a dry Riesling."
