Let's be very clear: we did not consent to a musical.
But the moment we turned the corner of that suspiciously rhyming corridor, everything… shifted.
Spotlights. Floating music notes. And worst of all?
A baritone string quartet made entirely of animated toast.
> "Nope," I said. "No. Absolutely not. I will not sing. I refuse."
Too late. The overture began.
Arc spun midair like a confused figure skater. Lyria struck a pose she definitely didn't mean to. Kevin immediately pulled out tap shoes.
> "Why do you have those?!" "I don't know!!"
The floor turned into a shimmering stage. Curtains dropped from nowhere. A spotlight pinned me in place.
And I sang. Unwillingly. Badly. Emotionally.
🎵 "I never asked for this madness, or these harmonies of doom— 🎵 🎵 But here I am in tights again, twirling through my doom!" 🎵
> "That doesn't even rhyme!" Arc shouted mid-spin. "I'M UNDER PRESSURE!" I screamed back.
Grubnuk's number was next. A soulful ballad about being rejected by a salad bar.
Greg had a dance-off with three sentient quills and lost in the third round.
Lyria's solo melted the literal walls. Kevin did an interpretive honk ballet.
Clucksworth? Operatic high notes so powerful, he shattered time. We looped back to the start of the song three times.
> "This is torture," Greg panted.
> "This is art," the Narrator whispered from above.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. All lights out. All sounds gone. Just heavy breathing and shame.
We collapsed in a heap. Sweating. Traumatized. Jazz-handed.
> "If we ever meet the person responsible for this," I said, "I am drop-kicking their soul."
The wall shimmered. Revealing a golden door.
On it, a sign:
"To the Editor's Office: No Singing Beyond This Point."
> "Thank the gods," Arc muttered. "Amen," Lyria groaned.
And so, broken in spirit and overly rehearsed, we limped onward.
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End of Chapter 30 (Songs sung. Sanity shredded. Never again.)