I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter 76: Runway Riots & Pizza Bribes
Jon's Perspective
Jon stepped through the sleek glass doors of the trendy clothing boutique like a soldier cautiously entering enemy territory. Every inch of the store screamed curated perfection—the lighting was suspiciously flattering, the white walls gleamed like freshly polished teeth, and the air was perfumed with a scent that could only be described as "artisanal detergent with a side of anxiety." Mannequins posed in smug silence, draped in outfits that looked like they required a small loan and a personal stylist to pull off.
Everything was too bright, too clean, and smelled faintly of expensive fabric softener and unattainable beauty standards.
He already felt out of place.
By contrast, Sam and Riley entered like gladiators stepping into an arena. Their eyes sparkled with the kind of chaotic energy Jon had come to associate with best—and most unpredictable—ideas.
"I dare you," Riley announced to Sam, voice laced with playful danger, "to try on whatever I give you. No exceptions. No take-backs. You wear it, no matter what."
Sam didn't flinch. She tilted her head slightly, a confident smirk tugging at her lips. "Deal. But I get to do the same. Hope you're ready for sequins and shame."
Jon, who had now learned to trust his instincts around these two, took a slow, cautious step backward. He could already feel the storm brewing.
Too slow.
Ten minutes later, he found himself positioned outside the fitting rooms, having been drafted—without consent—as the official judge of what Riley gleefully called the "Fashion Face-Off of the Century."
The first contender was Riley, who emerged with a dramatic flair, wearing a bedazzled denim jumpsuit so dazzling it could probably disrupt satellite signals. It looked like it had been exhumed from the storage closet of a 2003 boy band—sparkles, studs, and all.
"Ta-da," she said flatly, striking a pose so exaggerated it bordered on interpretive dance.
Jon took a moment, then gave a diplomatic nod. "It's… bold. Definitely retro. Possibly illegal in at least two fashion-forward countries."
Riley curtsied like royalty accepting an absurd title.
Then came Sam's turn. She stepped out with a flourish, wearing neon leopard print leggings that could blind a small animal, a glitter-encrusted crop top emblazoned with "Y2K Baby," and platform sneakers so chunky they practically needed their own zip code.
"Do I win?" she asked with a grin, spinning on the spot like a model possessed by disco fever.
Jon blinked against the glare from the sequins. "You win something, though I'm not entirely sure what. But I promise—it sparkles."
Riley burst out laughing. "Next round!"
What followed was a rapidly escalating montage of fashion crimes. Velvet tracksuits in eye-watering colors. Fringe jackets that jingled when they walked. Acid-wash overalls paired with leopard print scarves. A bright red cowboy hat that might've once belonged to a soap opera villain with a grudge.
Jon, now fully immersed in the madness, embraced his role with theatrical commitment. He rated outfits on absurd scales—like 'number of offended designers per square inch' or 'likelihood of being chased by the fashion police.' He clapped enthusiastically. He gave dramatic critiques. At one point, he even adopted a terrible French accent and pretended to be "Jean-Pierre, the ghost of runway past."
The grand finale came down to a glitter-drenched showdown: Sam in a floor-length, mirror-tiled gown that looked like a disco ball had exploded and reassembled itself on her body, versus Riley in highlighter-lime faux fur over purple bell bottoms that screamed "retro Muppet."
Jon held up an imaginary scorecard, squinting as if deliberating the fate of the universe. "And the winner is… Sam! For sheer commitment to sparkle, and for maintaining eye contact through what can only be described as a glitter tsunami."
Riley collapsed into a nearby chair, hand to her forehead like a Shakespearean heroine. "Biased. Utterly biased. This is why you can't have the judge dating the contestants."
Sam winked at Jon and blew him a kiss. "Don't be bitter. You still looked radiant in the lime horror."
"I did, didn't I?" Riley said with a sigh, fluffing the vest dramatically.
Seeing a chance to exit before round three began, Jon clapped his hands together. "Okay, fashionistas. How about we take a break from this sartorial chaos and switch gears to something a little less... sparkly. My treat. Pizza?"
That got their attention immediately.
Riley straightened up, already peeling off the fuzzy vest. "If there's extra cheese, all is forgiven."
Sam slipped her hand into Jon's with a grin. "You really are the best."
Just like that, the battle of rhinestones and ridiculousness was traded for the warm, mouthwatering promise of mozzarella and garlic crust. They piled into a booth at Sam and Riley's favorite pizza place, still laughing, still glowing—figuratively and literally, thanks to leftover glitter.
As the girls argued over toppings and stole bites from each other's slices, Jon leaned back in his seat, content. He had signed up for a simple hangout at the mall. What he got instead was a front row seat to a fashion war, endless laughter, and the kind of perfect chaos only true friendship could create.