The screen lit up again—gentle and cheerful, the way a haunted doll might sound moments before stabbing someone in the eye.
"Initiating Passion Mode: 300% Output. Prepare to melt the sky in romantic justice."
I stared. My hands dropped to my sides.
"Oh come on," I whispered.
With a mechanical groan, floor panels hissed open to reveal an entire bouquet of flamethrower roses. One of them promptly fired a heart-shaped fireball straight at my face, singeing my eyebrows and any remaining dignity I had left.
T-minus ten seconds.
Panic kicked in.
I slapped every button within reach—green, red, blinking, furry, humming. Buttons beeped. Whirred. One mechanical hand popped up and gave me a reassuring thumbs-up before vanishing into the console like it had a better place to be. Somewhere off to the side, the lever labeled "Poetry Mode" flipped itself and began reciting:
"There once was a love that was true,
'Til betrayal soured the stew.
Now my heart is a flame,
And I'm doling out blame—
While I blast witches two by two."
"None of this is helpful!" I shouted, swatting at the poetic speakers with increasing desperation.
Then—hope. I spotted a final switch, tucked away behind a cluster of wires and glitter confetti. Small, humble, blessedly unlabeled with hearts or musical notes. Just a scrawled tag in the tiniest handwriting:
"Emergency Shutdown: Use only if you've been dumped twice or more."
I paused.
"…Should I be glad or terrified that there's an actual button for that?"
'...Who cares. Thinking wasn't my strong suit anyway.'
I slammed that sad little switch with the force of every failed relationship in human history—mostly Mr. Witson's.
BAAM!
T-minus 3 seconds… 2… 1—
CLICK.
Everything stopped.
The lights flickered and died. The flaming roses hissed one last puff of steam and wilted into silence. The Passionator 9000 gave a final wheeze—like an old man giving up on life after missing his bus—and went still.
Even the disco ball above us spun one last, pitiful time… and dropped from the ceiling like a defeated star, rolling gently across the floor.
Silence.
I stood motionless, arms raised in shaky triumph. One tear rolled down my soot-smeared cheek.
"Finally," I breathed, voice cracking like a hero who'd just barely survived a love-themed apocalypse.
And then I collapsed. Face-down next to Raven's unconscious body, both of us sprawled like survivors of a war no one believed in.
"Next time," I muttered into the floorboards, "we're using a simpler plan. Like arson."
I lay on the ground, face half-squished into the floorboards. Everything was still.
Too still.
Even in the aftermath of chaotic disco death machinery, this kind of silence felt… off. I could hear the wind brushing through broken shutters, birds chirping outside like they hadn't just survived a flamethrower polka massacre. Peaceful, almost.
Normally, people would savor this kind of quiet after turmoil. Meditate. Reflect. Write poetry or something equally useless.
But not me.
I sat up slowly, eyes narrowing as I scanned the room. "Strange… way too strange…" I muttered. "Everything's so quiet."
I scratched my chin thoughtfully—well, mostly for show. Thinking wasn't my strong point, but I knew suspicious silence when I heard it.
"What is it that those cliché people always say?" I mumbled to myself. "Calm before the storm, or whatever?"
The hairs on my neck stood up. Not from fear, mind you. Just—instinct. Or possibly static from the still-smoking Passionator 9000.
I pushed myself to my feet. "Alright. Time to prepare for the worst. Again."
My eyes landed on the unconscious lump that was Mr. Witson.
I narrowed my gaze and cracked my knuckles.
"It's all because of this love-sick pervert," I growled, stomping toward him with the kind of energy that only came from being repeatedly traumatized by malfunctioning romantic weaponry.
Some time passed. I didn't bother keeping track. I was too busy pacing like a sleep-deprived panther and kicking stray screws around the room.
Then—finally—Mr. Witson stirred.
His eyelids fluttered open, and his gaze darted around in confusion… until he realized his arms and legs were securely bound with what had once been decorative machine wiring. His eyes widened in horror and mild offense.
"Why am I tied up again?" he whined, wiggling uselessly. "Could it be that the two of you have some sort of fetish for tying people up?"
I clenched my fist so hard my knuckles cracked.
"One more word out of your mouth," I said with slow, venomous precision, "and your spirit will be wandering the earth forever. Got it?"
He hiccuped—audibly—and immediately shut up. Good.
I turned to Raven. He gave a silent nod, already bracing himself for whatever insanity was about to unfold.
Then I faced Mr. Witson, who was still tied up and blinking with a kind of dazed optimism that made me want to introduce his face to a brick wall.
"Miss Raven possessed my dear little sister again," I said, voice low and dramatic. "She has something important to tell you."
His eyes widened with grotesque hope. "My love! I knew it! I knew my love couldn't leave me!"
Raven and I exchanged a look. It was the same look you give a sewer rat that's asking for a kiss.
'Maybe,' I thought, staring down at the lovesick mess of a man, 'instead of helping him find closure… we should just kill him and be done with it.'
I didn't say it aloud, but the glare I gave him probably translated just fine.
Raven, meanwhile, glanced at me warily. His eyes flicked toward mine, as if trying to read my mind.
'I don't know what Otto's thinking,' his expression said loud and clear, 'but it's definitely nothing holy.'
I nudged his arm. "What's wrong?" I whispered. "Go acky breaky his heart already."
Raven sighed. "Right. On it."
Raven took a deep breath, steadying himself like a man about to jump into a haunted well. He turned to Mr. Witson, who was practically vibrating with anticipation, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with delusional love—and let the spirit of melodrama take over.
Then Raven bowed his head, shivered once, and slowly looked up—eyes fluttering dramatically.
He took on a voice half a whisper, half a theatrical ghost from a school play.
"Wiiiiitsoooon…" he said, drawing the word out like the last wail of a dying banshee. "It is I… Raven… from beyond the grave…"
Mr. Witson gasped, eyes nearly falling out of his head. "R-Raven?! My darling?!"
"Yes…" Raven said, swaying slightly. "I have… borrowed the body of this beautiful young lady…"
I made a choking sound behind him.
"…to deliver one final message to you," Raven continued, lifting his arms in what he probably thought was a ghostly pose. "A message… of truth… and closure…"
Mr. Witson leaned forward, eyes shining like a lunatic child at a cursed candy store. "Anything, my love! Speak! I am yours!"
Raven, shifting tone to one of dramatic heartbreak.
"You must… you must move on. Your obsession—er, your love—has created a machine so powerful, it nearly melted the sky in romantic justice! I—I mean, I never wanted that!"
Mr. Witson sniffled. "You didn't?"
"No!" Raven wailed. "I wanted you to love again… to find someone who is not me, not dead, and definitely not a war crime waiting to happen!"
He punctuated the line with a deep, shuddering sob that might've won an award in any theatre that tolerated crossdressing possession monologues.
Mr. Witson blinked. "But… I built all this… for us."
"And that," Raven declared, "is why I must leave you. For good. My soul cannot rest while you continue to microwave the emotional integrity of the universe with heart lasers."
Mr. Witson was trembling now. His lower lip quivered like a dying caterpillar.
Raven paused, then added softly, "Let me go, Witson. Let yourself go. Find peace. Bake a cake. Take up pottery."
Mr. Witson made a strangled noise like someone trying to swallow a harmonica. "No… no, that can't be true…"
"And that poem you wrote me?" Raven added with grim finality. "It made my ghost physically ill. I had to exorcise myself."
I let out a strangled snort, barely holding it together.
Mr. Witson slumped forward, deflated. The fire in his eyes died, replaced by the cold embers of post-romantic ruin.
Silence fell.
Even the wind outside seemed to pause for effect.
Then Mr. Witson let out a soft, broken sigh. "She… she hated my poetry…"
"No kidding," I muttered.
Raven wiped his brow and turned to me, whispering, "Please tell me that worked. I can't fake-possession again. I almost started crying from secondhand embarrassment."
I gave him a slow clap. "Looks like those acting lessons we just did paid off."
"I'm never doing this again," he groaned.
"Unless the situation asks for it," I said with a grin.
Raven whimpered.
And for once, Mr. Witson—romantic madman, poet of chaos, inventor of emotional war crimes—sat perfectly still and heartbreakingly quiet.
The silence that followed felt sacred. Like the universe itself had decided to take five.