From Shrimp Boy to Slapjack: System Activated

Light

The neon serenade had morphed into a discordant symphony, each clinking coin in my pocket now a jarring reminder of Mom's intrusion into my gilded reality. The Architect, long gagged by the Slapjack's champagne-fueled revelry, finally broke free, the weight of responsibility settling like a leaden cloak on my shoulders.

As dusk bled into night, I sought solace in the Whisperer, the mahogany hull cutting through the bay's sapphire canvas, the city lights glittering like fallen stars. But even the moonlit whispers of Miami couldn't drown out the echoes of my mother's barbed words.

Suddenly, a sleek, iridescent jet ski sliced through the darkness, the figure on board emerging like a siren from the spray. Veronica, ex-queen of the chrome jungle, now bathed in moonlight, her lips a tempting, familiar curve.

"Been living the high life, I see," she purred, her voice as smooth as the bay beneath us.

The Slapjack, ever the sucker for a pretty face, stirred within me. But the Architect scoffed,