A week had passed since SpongeBob's meltdown and subsequent firing.
The Krusty Krab was quieter now—more sullen. Customers still trickled in, but the spirit of the place was… off. The food took longer. The grease sizzled lower. The air felt heavier, like the soul had been wrung out of the walls and left to dry on the heat lamp.
Squidward, for his part, was running on fumes.
He took an order from a couple of tourists, then dragged himself into the back, slapping together two Krabby Patties with robotic precision. Back to the counter. Back to the grill. Back and forth. Day after day. A one-man operation, plus whatever cosmic chaos Lurala brought with her whenever she felt like hanging around and criticizing his posture.
The 1.3x pay raise was nice, sure. But no amount of clams could fix his aching tentacles, his fried nerves, or the existential rot crawling deeper into his ink-black soul.
Now, in a rare lull between lunch rushes, he sat hunched at the register, sweat-soaked hat hanging limp over his forehead. The Death Note rested open on the counter like a challenge. Or a promise.
Lurala hovered beside him, barely visible to the human eye, though her scent—somewhere between lilac rot and ozone—lingered like a cruel perfume.
"Write it," she purred, her eyes glowing faintly. "Just three syllables. Eu-gene-Krabs. Liberation in 0.6 seconds."
Squidward exhaled, staring at the blank page.
"Aren't you supposed to be, like... a neutral third party?" he muttered. "You're sounding kind of murder-happy lately."
"I'm just providing support," she cooed. "Emotional encouragement. You're the maestro, I'm just the conductor of vibes."
He rolled his eyes. "I kill Krabs and I'm free from this greasy hellhole… but then I'm also unemployed. No job. No references. No Krabby Patty staff discount."
Lurala shrugged, spinning lazily midair. "Or you can keep slowly dying for one-and-a-third times minimum wage until your heart shrivels like overcooked calamari. Like your pal Squilliam."
He tapped the pen against the book, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Then came the voice.
"Squidward!" Krabs barked from his office. "Get in 'ere a minute, lad!"
Squidward blinked. "Oh what now?" he groaned, dragging his aching body toward the office.
Krabs sat at his desk, claws folded, eyes tired. The scent of old person and regret filled the cramped space.
"What's up?" Squidward asked, expecting another lecture about fry temperatures or customer satisfaction surveys.
But instead… Krabs sighed.
"I been too hard on ye, Squidward."
Squidward blinked. "Wait, what?"
"I mean it," Krabs said, rubbing his temples. "Ye been bustin' your beak workin' both positions, and I've been barkin' orders like it's 1999. Truth is… I'm hirin' a new fry cook this week. But you can keep the pay bump. You earned it."
Squidward's mouth opened and closed like a stunned guppy.
Krabs… being reasonable? Generous, even?
"Are you dying?" Squidward asked flatly.
Krabs chuckled—tired, low. "A part o' me, maybe."
He looked down at his desk, his eyes glassy.
"I haven't been right since Plankton died."
The words hung in the air like oil in water. Squidward said nothing.
Krabs kept talking.
"As much as I hated the little slimeball, he gave me purpose. Every day, another scheme. Another break-in. Another ridiculous disguise. It kept me sharp. Kept me young." His voice cracked. "And now? It's just… me. Alone with me money, me formular, and no one tryin' to steal it."
He paused, then added, "Truth be told… I think Plankton felt the same way. He coulda sold kelp dogs or sea shakes. Anything but chum. But he held onto that formula like it was the last bit o' his soul. 'Cause chasin' it… meant something."
Squidward shifted uncomfortably.
Krabs sniffled. "And now SpongeBob's gone off the rails. Called me a monster. Talking about that Kelp Marx crap. Each according to his something."
He wiped his nose with a Krusty napkin. "You might be the only friend I got left, Squidward."
Squidward's heart twinged.
Lurala leaned in close. "See? You've altered the world. Tilted it. They're all unraveling in your wake. What else could you change?"
But Squidward barely heard her.
Krabs stood and offered a claw. "Thanks for listenin'. Take the rest o' the day off. Go get some rest."
Squidward hesitated, then shook his claw.
As he stepped out into the warm Bikini Bottom afternoon, the sun catching the grease stains on his shirt, he felt… strange. Conflicted.
He didn't know what to think anymore.
That was when she appeared.
"Howdy, Squidward."
He turned.
There stood Sandy Cheeks, her helmet slightly scuffed, eyes sharp and serious. She held a tablet under one arm, and wore the expression of someone who knew too much—and wasn't sure how to feel about it.
"We need to talk."