(Romancing the Beat – "No Way – They Would Never Be Together")
If you've never sprinted through an underground labyrinth of forgotten sewage tunnels while holding hands with your rebellious daughter who just made you a traitor to the regime—honestly, what have you even done with your life?
"This is not a drill!" Lyra yells as she drags me down a narrow hallway that smells like mold and generational trauma.
"I figured," I pant, nearly tripping over a rat that might've been holding a knife.
Behind us, boots thunder. Sirens wail. I swear I hear someone yell, "Freeze in the name of emotionless justice!" which sounds fake but okay.
We turn a corner.
Another.
And another.
I'm 100% sure she's just making it up now.
"You do know where we're going, right?" I shout.
She doesn't answer.
That's not a yes.
Up ahead: a steel ladder. Leading to… darkness. Love that.
Lyra scrambles up it like a punk-rock squirrel. I follow, wheezing like a sad accordion.
We pop out inside a broken maintenance closet. Concrete walls. Dim light. Smells like regret and expired air freshener.
We freeze.
Hold breath.
Listen.
Footsteps. Fading.
Silence.
"You okay?" she asks.
I want to say yes. Instead, I collapse against the wall and wheeze, "I'm dying."
"You're not dying. You're just unfit."
"Same thing in a fascist cardio chase."
She grins. Hands on hips. Watching me fall apart.
And here's the problem:
She looks good.
Like, heroic-resistance-leader-good.
Like, "dirt-smudged cheekbones and leather jacket" good.
Like, I'd totally have had a crush on her if I weren't her dad—which is horrifying and should be deleted from my brain immediately.
"I shouldn't have brought you," she says quietly.
"No, it's fine," I mutter. "This is fun. Real father-daughter bonding. High-speed betrayal. Gunfire. Matching trauma."
She sits beside me. Close. Too close.
"I didn't think it would go down this fast," she admits.
"First rule of espionage," I say. "It always goes down this fast."
She chuckles. And it's… warm. Like a memory I don't deserve.
For a second, we're still.
Just breathing.
Then—BOOM.
The wall behind us shudders. Dust rains down.
"Oh, great," I mutter. "They brought explosives. Super chill of them."
Lyra's already on her feet. Grabbing my hand again.
We run.
Down another corridor. Through a hatch. Past more flickering lights and guilt.
Until—
We hit a dead end.
No ladder.
No tunnel.
Just… wall.
"Tell me this is one of your metaphorical 'we break the wall of lies' things," I pant.
"Nope," she says. "Just a literal wall. But it wasn't here before."
"Lovely. They're adapting. Evolution: brought to you by heartless bastards with crowbars."
She spins around. Thinks fast. That's her thing.
Me? I think medium-slow and stress-eat gum.
Then she pulls a small device from her boot. Looks like a taser had a baby with a Swiss army knife.
"What is that?"
"Hope."
She jams it into a crack in the wall and presses a button.
Sparks.
A soft whine.
Then… the wall shivers. Slides open.
Revealing a narrow crawlspace.
Because of course.
"I hate you," I mutter.
She's already crawling in. "You'll love me when we live."
I groan and follow. It's tight. Dark. Smells like desperation.
Halfway through, something clicks.
We freeze.
"What was that?" I whisper.
She doesn't move.
"Trip sensor," she whispers back. "We've got about fifteen seconds before—"
Alarms.
Flashlights.
A voice yells, "THIS IS SECURITY ZONE EIGHT. SURRENDER NOW—"
"Nope," Lyra growls, grabbing me and yanking me out the other side just as—
BANG.
A flash of light behind us.
My ears ring.
We roll into a supply room stacked with rusted robot parts and what might be someone's decapitated mannequin collection.
I land on top of her.
Full weight.
Chest to chest.
Face inches from hers.
Time?
Yeah. Time stops.
I smell smoke, popcorn, and something sweet I can't name.
She looks up at me.
Eyes wide.
Breath fast.
And in that exact moment, I realize something completely inappropriate:
I trust her.
This outlaw. This stranger. This sarcastic, brilliant, emotional whirlwind.
My daughter.
Wait.
Nope.
Not my daughter.
Lyra.
Yeah, okay, here's the twist I didn't see coming.
She's not my daughter.
Never was.
Plot twist, baby.
We're both staring. And breathing. And not saying a word.
Then—
"So…" she whispers, "you gonna kiss me or have an asthma attack?"
My brain breaks.
Before I can choose, she shoves me off—gently. Sort of.
And says, "Later. When we're not being hunted."
Right. Priorities.
I sit up. Heart hammering like a jealous drummer.
"I—wait," I say. "You're not my daughter?"
She smirks. "Didn't you think I was a little young?"
I blink.
Think back.
Realize… she never actually said she was my daughter. She just let me assume.
"Why?" I ask, still floored.
She stands, brushing off dust. "Because I needed someone who'd care enough to follow me. To believe they still had something to fix."
Oof.
Right in the chest cavity.
"But," she adds, softer, "you did love her, right? The real Lyra?"
I nod.
Tight.
Painful.
"Yes. More than anything."
She gives a sad little smile. "Then you can help me save her."
BOOM.
Mission stakes just escalated.
Not a daughter.
But a mission to save the real one.
I don't even know this woman.
But I think I already trust her more than I've trusted anyone in a long time.
And that, my friends, is the problem.