Chapter 2: The Impetus

The conversation that unfolded between Jungkook and Jimin was, in all honesty, surprisingly pleasant. It was a rare, jarring thing for both of them—to find a kindred spirit in a room full of curated masks and political agendas.

They spoke with an ease that bypassed the usual stiff etiquette of the capital, discovering a shared love for the burn of a heavy workout and an unexpected, mutual obsession with human video games and underground synth-wave music.

“Jungkook-ssi, tell me,” Jimin said, his voice leaning into a conspiratorial whisper as he adjusted the crimson feathers of his mask.

“Have you actually had the chance to sit down with the latest Overwatch release? I spent three hours last night trying to carry a team of randoms and nearly threw my console out the window.”

Jungkook let out a genuine, boxy laugh, his shoulders losing the tension they’d held since he arrived.

“Damn, unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance yet. I’ve been buried in... personal matters. Is it as chaotic as the forums say?”

“Worse,” Jimin grinned, his eyes sparkling. “It’s a disaster. You’d love it.”

The conversation continued to flow, a small island of normalcy in a sea of pretension. But the peace didn't last. It wasn't just stopped—it was shattered.

Without warning, a violent, invisible tremor ripped through the air. It wasn't a physical earthquake, but a localized magical shockwave so potent it made the very mana in the room scream.

Above them, the massive crystal chandeliers—masterpieces of light and levitation—groaned as the magic holding them aloft was forcibly unraveled. With a deafening, rhythmic crack, the glass exploded.

“Move!” Jungkook roared.

Both men reacted with the honed instincts of predators.

They lunged in opposite directions just as a rain of jagged, diamond-sharp crystal plummeted toward the alcove. The air was thick with the sound of screaming guests and the whistling of falling debris.

Despite their speed, they weren't unscathed. A stray shard caught Jungkook across the cheek, leaving a stinging line of crimson that began to drip onto his dark waistcoat; another sliced through the velvet of Jimin’s sleeve, blossoming red against the deep wine fabric.

“Fuck! What the hell is going on?” Jungkook hissed, wiping the blood from his jaw as he regained his footing amidst the dust and chaos.

“Jimin-ssi, wasn’t the host a high-ranking magical? Their security isn’t supposed to be this shit!”

Jimin didn’t answer immediately. His posture had shifted from the lithe socialite to something far more dangerous. His eyes were darting through the settling dust, his entire being focused on a single task: locating Hoseok.

Jungkook, sensing the shift, did the same for Rylene. His heart hammered against his ribs—not from fear, but from a cold, rising protective fury. Through the haze of smoke and shimmering stardust from the broken lights, he finally spotted them.

Near the center of the ballroom, Hoseok and Rylene were standing back-to-back. Hoseok’s dragon aura flared to its limit, casting a brilliant, dome-like barrier over a group of panicked guests.

Rylene stood within the shield, her silver hair a sharp contrast against the golden light, her hands already glowing with the cold, lunar energy of her own magic. They looked like a pair of statues carved from power, holding the ceiling at bay.

Jungkook cursed internally, a long, low string of profanities. There was no way he could reach her now.

Rylene was at the epicenter of the melee, and for him to fight his way to her side would reveal a level of combat prowess and magical signature that would raise questions neither of them were ready to answer. If he stepped into that light, the "non-descript" cover he’d spent all day building would vanish.

He didn’t have much time to weigh his options, however, because the architects of the disaster finally decided to make their entrance.

Figures in dark, jagged armor began to materialize from the shadows of the balcony, their presence smelling of ozone and rotted magic. Jungkook adjusted his obsidian mask, his gaze turning icy.

Honestly, he thought, these people had shitty timing. If they had struck while everyone was still disoriented and blinded by the glass, they might have stood a chance. Instead, they’d waited until the high-ranking magics in the room had found their footing.

A low growl vibrated in Jungkook's chest. They wanted a fight in a room full of monsters? Fine.

He would give them one, even if he had to stay in the shadows to do it. The shattered stars in his soul thrummed with a vengeful, jagged rhythm. It was time to see just how much of his constellation was left to burn.

Jungkook forced a slow, steadying breath into his lungs, trying to dampen the sudden, frantic roar of his blood. On a purely logical level, he knew the stakes.

The ballroom was packed with high-ranking magics—nobles, warriors, and scholars who prided themselves on their power—but he knew the grim truth: if he lost his grip on the jagged remnants of his constellation, everyone in this room would be nothing more than sheep in a slaughterhouse.

This was the heavy silence behind his absence from the public eye. As the Crown Prince, he was a target, yes; but as a weapon of unstable cosmic energy, he was a liability.

He had spent decades in the dark, gritting his teeth until they nearly cracked, fighting to corral a power that was meant to be as natural as breathing. He had taught himself to cage the wild, erratic lightning of his soul, but even now, the bars felt flimsy.

He wasn't a damsel in distress, however. Shaking off the paralyzing weight of his memories, he let his physical form dissolve at the edges, bleeding into the long, jagged shadows cast by the broken masonry.

The only true light left was the brilliant, pulsing dome generated by Hoseok and Rylene—a golden-lunar shield that cast the rest of the hall into deep, flickering silhouettes.

He moved like a phantom through the gloom, weaving between overturned tables and weeping guests.

He zeroed in on one of the armored assailants who was preparing to hurl a bolt of rotted energy toward a group of cowering musicians. Jungkook slid behind him, his hand raised to deliver a silent, crushing strike to the man’s neck.

Then, he saw it.

In the flickering light of the shield, the man’s collar shifted, revealing a brand seared into the skin of his throat. It was a mark Jungkook would never forget if he lived a thousand more years—the same arrogant, twisting symbol his captors had worn.

They had flaunted it while they tore at his soul, so certain he wouldn't survive to speak of it that they had been reckless with their secrets. They had been wrong. He had survived, and every detail of that nightmare was etched into his mind in lines of fire.

A wave of violent nausea clawed at his throat. His foot slipped against a piece of glass, the crunch echoing in the sudden silence of his shock. The man spun around, his eyes widening behind his visor as he sensed the presence in the dark. He swung a spiked mace infused with dark mana, the weapon whistling toward Jungkook’s head.

Instinct took over. Jungkook twisted his body mid-air, a feline blur of movement that evaded the strike by a fraction of an inch.

And with that, all hell broke loose.

The ballroom erupted into a cacophony of violence. The attackers moved with a terrifying, synchronized brutality, their rotted magic clashing against the desperate defenses of the guests.

To the left, Hoseok was a whirlwind of radiance. He had dropped the static shield and was now weaving through the enemy like a streak of sunlight. Every time his hand moved, a flash of pure, searing light blinded an attacker, followed by a kick that sent them flying back into the marble pillars.

Jimin was a silent reaper in the fray. He didn't shout; he didn't glow. He simply appeared in the blind spots of the armored men, his movements so fluid they looked like a dance. He used a pair of short, silver daggers that hummed with a low, deadly frequency, slicing through armor as if it were parchment. He was a master of the "six-step" combat style, leaving a trail of unconscious or incapacitated foes in his wake.

Rylene stood her ground near the center, her silver hair whipping around her face as she commanded the very air. She froze the moisture in the room, creating jagged spears of ice that she launched with lethal precision, pinning attackers to the walls by their heavy cloaks.

Jungkook stayed in the periphery, a ghost in the machine. He couldn't risk a full magical outburst, so he fought with a cold, surgical efficiency.

He appeared from the shadows behind a man lunging at Jimin, grabbing the attacker's wrist and snapping the bone with a sickening crack before melting away again.

He moved like a shadow-stitcher, lending a hand where the defenses were crumbling. He tripped an assailant heading for Hoseok’s back, then shoved a heavy stone bust of a former king into the path of a dark spell, the marble shattering but saving a group of guests.

The air grew thick with the smell of ozone, burnt silk, and blood. The ballroom, once a temple of vanity, was now a grisly theater of war. Through it all, Jungkook’s eyes remained fixed on the marks on their necks. His breath was coming in short, jagged hitches, the "constellation" within him straining against its seals, screaming for the chance to burn these men into ash.

He fought the urge to let go. He fought the urge to scream. He was a shadow among the stars, and tonight, the shadow had to be enough.

Both Jungkook and Rylene had been prepared for the party to go well into the night, but they had imagined the exhaustion would stem from the shallow weight of socializing, the sting of expensive champagne, and the rhythmic pulse of the ballroom music. They hadn't expected to spend their energy fighting for their lives, nor for the lives of every guest in that hall.

The adrenaline that had sustained them through the chaotic melee was now receding, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that made every limb feel like it was forged from lead.

The sky was already bleeding into the soft, bruised purples and golds of dawn when they finally materialized within the familiar, protective wards of the palace.

They had reached their private wing, a sanctuary that felt worlds away from the shattered glass and ozone-scented violence of the masquerade.

The palace was an architectural titan, divided into five distinct sectors.

At its heart lay the Great Commons, a labyrinth of echoing corridors that housed the throne room, the official state ballroom, and a dining hall large enough to host a small army.

Surrounding this core were the four wings: the King and Queen’s private estate, the staff and utility wing, the guest quarters, and finally, the residence belonging to the four siblings.

Jungkook’s wing was his favorite place in the world. It stood five stories tall, a perfect blend of ancient magical grandeur and modern human comfort.

The ground floor was a sprawling common space, anchored by a living room that opened onto a balcony wide enough to host a gala of its own. Inside, the decor was a testament to their varied personalities.

One wall was dominated by a massive, high-definition screen and an array of every human gaming console imaginable—a nod to Jungkook and Rylene’s shared hobby.

Another wall was a floor-to-ceiling library of leather-bound grimoires for Ytris, while a sun-drenched corner was dedicated to an art studio. It was a space usually filled with Hyunjin’s sketches, but Jungkook often found peace there, losing himself in the tactile rhythm of oil painting.

As they stepped into the foyer, the quiet was broken by the sound of movement. Ytris and Hyunjin were already there, alerted by the shift in the wards or perhaps by the sheer gravity of the magical shockwave that had rippled through the city.

Jungkook leaned against the mahogany doorframe, giving them a tired, shaky wave. His midnight-navy waistcoat was torn, and the dried blood on his cheek felt like a brand.

"The party was a bust," he said, his voice raspy and devoid of its usual playfulness. He didn't wait for them to ask. In a few hollow sentences, he painted the picture: the shattered chandeliers, the coordinated strike, and most importantly, the mark.

"They were there. The ones from my past. They had the mark on their necks, Hyunjin. They weren't just thugs; they were the same ones who tried to take my stars."

The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of years. Hyunjin’s face paled, his artistic hands clenching into fists, while Ytris’s eyes flared with a protective, scholarly fury. Jungkook didn't have the strength left to manage their reactions. He needed the darkness of his own room.

He climbed the stairs slowly, his boots thudding softly against the carpeted steps. Each floor he passed was a reminder of his siblings' lives, but he didn't stop until he reached his own sanctuary on the fourth floor.

His room was a dramatic landscape of crimson, black, and white, designed to ground him when his magic felt too vast. Strips of silver trim caught the early morning light, tracing the edges of his furniture with a cold, metallic aesthetic.

He felt the grime of the battle—the dust, the sweat, and the phantom touch of those marked men—clinging to his skin like a second layer.

He moved on autopilot, stripping off the ruined silk shirt and stepping into a scalding shower. He watched the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, wishing it were as easy to wash away the memory of that brand.

When he finally emerged, he didn't even bother with pajamas. He practically fell toward the bed, his muscles giving out before he even reached the center. The moment his head hit the pillow, the world vanished into a dark, dreamless void.

“I’ve made my decision,” Jungkook announced the following morning, his voice cutting through the quiet clink of silverware against porcelain.

The morning light filtered softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their private kitchen, illuminating the steam rising from a platter of perfectly seasoned scrambled eggs and golden-brown toast.

It was Ytris’s turn in the rotation, and as was her custom, she had prepared a hearty Western-style breakfast.

The siblings had a long-standing tradition: when they weren't required to endure the formal, multi-course spectacle of dining with their parents, they managed their own kitchen. They rotated through four specific cuisines on a four-day cycle that reflected their individual tastes.

Ytris handled the Western classics; Hyunjin, with his eye for aesthetics, specialized in the delicate balance of Japanese cuisine; Jungkook took pride in the rich, comforting flavors of Korean dishes; and Rylene, the youngest, favored the bold and varied textures of Chinese fare.

It was a domestic rhythm that grounded them, a small slice of normalcy within the gilded cage of the palace.

Ytris paused, her fork hovering mid-air, a guarded expression settling over her sharp features. As the scholar of the family, she was naturally inclined toward caution.

“So, you’re actually going to talk to the Kim Coven?” she asked, her voice laced with a skepticism she didn’t bother to hide.

It wasn’t that she despised the Kims. No one could deny their brilliance or their power. But as far as Ytris was concerned, they were a wild card. They didn't hold a deep-seated loyalty to the Crown; they weren't rebels, but they operated on their own frequency, beholden only to their own ancient codes.

To Ytris, sending her brother—broken constellation and all—into their midst felt like handing a glass heart to a blacksmith. She couldn't trust them to keep him safe, not yet.

“Yeah,” Jungkook replied, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers against the table.

“And I’m planning to take Felix with me. He’s my official spokesperson and right-hand man for a reason. His presence should lend some much-needed credibility. After all, what if they think I’m just an exceptionally attractive imposter?”

He flashed a teasing grin, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, then glanced toward Hyunjin. “If that’s okay with you, of course. I know he’s technically part of your coven.”

Hyunjin waved him off with a lazy flick of his wrist, his mind already drifting toward the sketches he wanted to finish later.

“It’s fine, Hyung. Felix works for you because he enjoys the chaos you bring into his life. Take him. Do what you have to do. I’m sure he’ll find the whole trip immensely entertaining—he loves a good mystery.”

Rylene, who had been uncharacteristically quiet while she picked at her toast, finally looked up. “When exactly are you planning to go?”

“Hmm. Probably around late afternoon,” Jungkook mused, staring out at the manicured palace gardens.

“Jimin-ssi and Hoseok-ssi were in the thick of that fight last night. They’ll likely be resting or dealing with the aftermath of the masquerade. I don’t want to catch them when they’re irritable from lack of sleep.”

Ytris sighed, finally setting her fork down. The decision was made; there was no point in arguing further.

“Fine. But let us know the moment you and Felix are ready to leave. No sneaking out.” She leveled a stern look at him, her protective instincts flaring.

“And you’re going to let Rylene prep you again. You are representing the family, Jungkook. You will look the part.”

“Our little Prince is growing up,” Hyunjin teased, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Good luck, Hyungie. Try not to let Taehyung-ssi flirt you into a corner again.”

Jungkook felt the heat rise to his ears, the memory of the blue-sweatered shopkeeper and the scent of damp earth flooding back to him. He groaned, throwing a piece of crust at his brother.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered, admitting defeat against the collective will of his sisters. “Ryl can do her worst. Just make sure Felix is ready by three.”

As he finished his coffee, the weight of the coming meeting settled back onto his shoulders. He was stepping out of the shadows and into the lair of the most mysterious coven in the capital. Whether they would be his saviors or his undoing was a question only the afternoon would answer.

“Ready?” Jungkook asked, his voice steady but carrying a trace of the gravity that today’s meeting demanded. He held out his hand to Felix, the air around them already beginning to hum with the static of imminent teleportation.

Felix stood beside him, a pillar of professional poise. Over the centuries of Jungkook’s seclusion, Felix had become more than just a right-hand man; he was the Prince’s shadow, his voice, and his face in the world of men.

He was dressed in his formal envoy attire: a structured doublet of charcoal grey with silver filigree embroidery that snaked up the sleeves like frost. A high-collared white shirt sat beneath it, pinned with a sapphire brooch that mirrored the deep blue of his eyes.

To the public, this face represented the Crown, and Felix carried that reputation with a silent, fierce pride.

Jungkook, meanwhile, was dressed to command the room without looking like he was trying too hard—a delicate balance Rylene had spent hours perfecting. He wore a midnight-black frock coat made of enchanted silk that rippled with a faint iridescent sheen whenever he moved.

Underneath was a burgundy vest of heavy brocade, fastened with obsidian buttons. His black slacks were tucked into knee-high leather boots that clicked with authority on the stone floor. He looked every bit the deity-born prince, a mixture of lethal grace and celestial heritage.

“Let’s go, Hyungie,” Felix replied cheerfully. Despite the weight of their mission, his energy was infectious. With a sharp snap of displacement, the palace vanished, replaced by the crisp, earthy air of the outskirts of the Kim Coven’s estate.

It was a five-minute walk to the main residence.

Jungkook could have easily bypassed the wards and landed them on the doorstep, but today was about respect. They made the short trek up a winding path lined with ancient, whispering trees and wildflowers that seemed to glow with a soft, ambient magic.

The Kim residence was a masterpiece of organic architecture—a sprawling manor built of pale stone and dark wood, overgrown with ivy that shimmered with protective charms.

Large, floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the forest light to pour into the house, blurring the lines between the wild exterior and the refined interior.

Upon reaching the massive oak doors, Jungkook let his magic flare—a golden, pulsing signal—before ringing the bell.

He knew their arrival hadn’t been a surprise; the moment they stepped through the outer wards, the coven would have felt the shift in the atmosphere.

The door swung open to reveal a man with sharp, intelligent eyes and a dimpled smile that didn't quite reach his guarded gaze.

It was Kim Namjoon, the coven’s brilliant strategist and secondary representative.

His eyes widened slightly as they landed on Felix—a face he recognized from a dozen diplomatic reports—and then shifted to the man standing beside him.

With a polite, albeit stunned, bow, Namjoon led them into the heart of the home.

Jungkook and Felix were ushered into a sprawling living room that felt lived-in and cozy, a stark contrast to the sterile halls of the palace.

The air smelled of cinnamon, old books, and high-grade magic. It seemed they had interrupted a rare moment of coven bonding; the entire group was scattered across plush velvet couches, surrounded by bowls of popcorn and scattered snacks.

Taehyung was the first to react, nearly choking on a kernel.

“Oh! You’re the dude who came to my shop!”

“Wait, you’ve met him too?” Jimin piped up from his spot on the rug, his eyes narrowing in recognition of the man from the masquerade.

“What do you mean 'too'?” Seokjin asked, his voice calm but his posture shifting into that of a protective leader.

“Well, I met him at the party last night,” Jimin explained, tilting his head.

“We had a rather illuminating conversation, didn't we, Jungkook-ssi?”

Seokjin stood up, his presence filling the room. He was the eldest, the anchor of the Kim clan.

“Well, well. It seems you’ve already met the youngest of my coven. Since you've made quite the impression on them, I would appreciate a formal introduction for the rest of us.”

There was an edge in Seokjin's voice—not quite hostility, but the wary territorialism of a head of house. Jungkook felt the weight of it and mumbled under his breath,

"Right... well, how does one even go about this?"

“So?” Hoseok prompted, his usual sun-bright aura replaced by a focused, inquisitive hum.

Jungkook took a breath, drawing himself up to his full, regal height. The air in the room grew heavy, a faint gold shimmer dancing behind his pupils.

“Well, here we go. I am Jeon-Lee Jungkook, the Crown Prince of Celestia. And I have a favor to ask of you all.”

Silence fell like a guillotine. The popcorn was forgotten. Yoongi, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, narrowed his cat-like eyes.

“You seriously expect us to believe that the elusive Crown Prince—the one who hasn't been seen in a millennium—has suddenly strolled into our living room to ask for a favor?”

Felix stepped forward before Jungkook could react, his voice dropping into a dangerous hiss.

“Min Yoongi. Show respect to His Highness. While the King and Queen may overlook the transgressions your coven commits on a regular basis, they will not be so forgiving regarding their son.”

“Felix,” Jungkook interrupted, his tone sharp but calm. “They are not wrong to have their guard up.” He turned back to the coven, his gaze steady.

“I will not apologize for Felix’s protective nature, but I would request that you please sit down and have a chat with me. I wouldn't be here if it weren't a matter of life and death.”

A sudden, overwhelming flare of Jungkook’s true aura—vast, ancient, and smelling of the cold void between stars—filled the room for a split second. It was enough. The coven sat, Seokjin gesturing for Jungkook and Felix to take the opposite couch.

“Jungkook-ssi,” Seokjin began, his voice softening.

“What is it that you need our help with?”

“It’s a long story, so please, bear with me,” Jungkook said. He leaned forward, his hands clasped. “What do you all know about the magic you harness?”

Namjoon took the lead. “The magic we harness is drawn from the earth. All creatures have an inherent capacity—a vessel—that can be expanded slightly, but we are ultimately limited by what the planet can provide.”

“Great. And what do you know about the Royal Family?”

Before Namjoon could answer, a loud, muffled shout of “Fuck, I flirted with a Prince!” passed through the coven’s telepathic bond from Taehyung, followed by Jimin’s snide

“You just realized that?” and Hoseok’s quiet chuckles.

Namjoon cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses.

“Not much is known. History says the Royal Family are deities, but the details are... elusive.”

“We are deities,” Jungkook confirmed.

“But we don’t draw power from the earth. We draw it from the Source—the first pulse of the universe. While the earth acts as a filtered conduit for you, we harness the raw, unlimited stream. When a deity is born, a constellation of seven stars takes birth in the heavens alongside them. My constellation is called Aeternyx.

My stars being -

Oriath

Velis

Kaen

Thryx

Elyra

Vaenor

Nocthra

Each star represents an aspect of my being a part of who I am ”

He paused, the pain of the memory flickering in his eyes.

“I was kidnapped when I was only a century old—an infant, by our standards. Those bastards wanted my power. They tried to fracture my soul and seal my stars to harvest the energy. They failed to kill me, but they succeeded in breaking me. They fractured two of my stars and sealed a third before I was rescued. I spent the last millennium in hiding, not because I was shy, but because I was a walking supernova. I had to learn to cage what was left of my soul just to keep from leveling the capital..

And so now I live with four stars though…

I was born with seven” a pained huff left his lips

The room was deathly quiet now.

Even Yoongi looked stunned.

“My coronation is in a year,” Jungkook continued.

“The culprits are still out there, likely within the Royal Court itself. My parents' hands are tied by politics and ancient treaties. They cannot investigate without sparking a civil war. I need to find them before I take the throne, and I want your help.”

“Why us?” Yoongi asked.

“Because you don’t give a fuck about politics,” Jungkook said plainly.

“You don’t need money, you don’t crave fame, and you’re powerful enough that no one can sway you with threats. You're the only ones I can trust to be impartial.”

“Huh. You're not wrong,” Yoongi muttered.

Jungkook reached into his coat and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. As he opened it, the coven tensed—gifting between a non-coven member and a coven was a complex social minefield.

“Shit, sorry!” Jungkook rambled, his princely mask slipping for a moment.

“I didn’t mean to overstep. I’ve only ever dealt with two covens, and they’re all family, so they don’t care about the rules... I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Seokjin said, a ghost of a smile appearing.

“We understand the intent.”

Jungkook pulled out a pendant on a silver chain. Inside the crystal teardrop, an entire galaxy seemed to swirl in hues of violet, gold, and deep blue. It radiated a humming, protective energy.

“It’s a communication device,” Jungkook explained.

“A one-time use for safety. You can contact me with your answer through this. I don’t want to cause you trouble, and you are in no way obligated to help. This investigation will be life-threatening. If I don’t hear from you in a week, the magic will fade, and I’ll understand your answer is no.”

With a final, respectful nod, Jungkook and Felix stood. Within moments, they vanished in a swirl of shadows and light.

The living room remained silent for a long, heavy minute. Then, the silence was shattered.

“OH MY GOD!” Taehyung screamed, burying his face in a couch cushion and kicking his legs like a frantic child.

“I flirted with him! I lowered my voice to a bedroom level! I told the Crown Prince of Celestia that he was 'one of a kind'!”

“You called him a 'hot patron,' Tae,” Jimin added helpfully, though his own face was pale. “I, on the other hand, discussed video games with him while he was bleeding from a chandelier accident.”

“I flirted with a deity!” Taehyung shrieked into the pillow, his voice muffled but desperate.

“He probably has the power to turn me into a shrubbery, and I winked at him! I’m going to be the first fae in history to be executed for excessive rizz!”

Hoseok let out a loud, booming laugh, leaning back.

“To be fair, he flirted back, didn’t he? The Prince has game.”

“He has fractured stars,” Namjoon reminded them, his voice solemn as he looked at the glowing pendant on the table.

“He’s asking us to help him hunt the people who tried to murder a god. Forget the flirting, Taehyung. We just got invited to the end of the world.”

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