Apparently, he’d shown up late to school. Way too late. You know why? We crashed his car. He also arrived in an Uber. You know why? We crashed his car. He also got another detention on top of the previous one. Wanna know why? Because we… crashed… his… car.
But did I see him stressing about it? Nope. He was grinning, flipping his perfect golden demon hair, and probably telling some ridiculous story about how hilarious it was. Meanwhile, I was spiraling. Because unlike him, I couldn’t just brush off a financial catastrophe like it was a mere inconvenience.
“Probably expensive?” Joy muttered from the other side of the table, stirring her drink as if this wasn’t my impending doom we were discussing.
Oh wow. Thanks, Joy. Super helpful.
I pressed my forehead against the cafeteria table. “This is it. This is where I die. Not in battle, not in some heroic act of self-sacrifice, but because of an over-glorified bunny.”
Shun snorted. “A magical rodent.”
“Oh, excuse me, an abomination of nature with supernatural flying abilities, a levitating bunny—how could I forget?” I lifted my head just enough to glare at them. “I yelled ‘BUNNY’ one time, and now my life is over.”
“You could always ask Ethan how much it actually costs to fix the car,” Shun suggested.
I groaned. “Yeah, let me just waltz over there and casually ask, ‘Hey, Ethan, how much does it cost to fix your priceless convertible that I may or may not have indirectly destroyed with my existence?’”
“He’d probably just say ‘it’s complicated’ again,” Joy said, rolling her eyes.
She wasn’t wrong. When I had asked him why he couldn’t just tell his dad about the damages, that was his response—It’s complicated. Which, knowing him, could mean anything. His dad was literally a billionaire. Unless billionaires operated on some new form of economics that I didn’t understand, I didn’t see how a simple repair bill could be that complicated.
And now? Now it was my problem.
Because I was the idiot who had yelled ‘BUNNY!’ in the first place.
After a few minutes of collective existential dread, we decided to do what any desperate, underqualified, broke high school students would do—we started listing jobs.
Job Idea #1: Cleaning the Alchemist’s Bakery
Would it cover the cost? No. Would it get us free pastries infused with magical properties? Possibly. But there was also a tiny chance we’d inhale enough enchanted flour to turn into frogs, and honestly, I wasn’t ready to take that risk.
Job Idea #2: Night Shifts at the Grand Market
This was instantly rejected because we all agreed that working in the Grand Market at night was basically a fast track to becoming ghosts. Nobody ever talked about the weird things that happened there after dark, and we didn’t want to find out firsthand.
Job Idea #3: Babysitting Noble Heirs
Joy snorted. “Yeah, because if there’s anyone I trust less than Ethan near children, it’s you.”
“Excuse me?” I gasped, clutching my chest in mock offense. “I am great with kids.”
Joy leaned forward, mimicking holding a tiny elf child. “‘Here, small human, would you like to discuss quantum rune mechanics and the long-term effects of necromantic inflation?’”
“…Okay, rude.”
Job Idea #4: Mowing Enchanted Lawns
“Do you know how many cursed hedges we’d have to trim?” I groaned. “Like, the entire country’s worth.”
Shun nodded solemnly. “And the moment we cut a single vine wrong, it’ll grow back overnight—stronger. Smarter. Waiting for revenge.”
A collective shudder passed over us. Nope. Not worth it.
Job Idea #5: Selling Potion-Infused Lemonade
Shun actually considered this. “We could sell premium elixirs to nobles. Make it all fancy.” Joy wiggled her fingers mystically. “We could call it Ethan’s Tears.”
“…Tempting,” I admitted.