The insistent *click-clack* of plastic on glass was the first thing that pierced the gelatinous fog in Junia’s skull. It wasn’t a gentle sound, but a frantic, almost furious rhythm, like a tiny drummer possessed by a caffeine addiction. Her eyelids felt like sandpaper glued to lead weights. Groaning, she forced one open, then the other, only to be assaulted by a sunbeam weaponizing every dust mote in the trashed suite of the Neon Mirage Suites. Empty bottles of iridescent Zora’s Kiss tequila formed a precarious monument on the bedside table. Half-eaten, congealed room service littered the floor, smelling faintly of regret and overcooked shrimp. “What… in the name of the Nexus…” she mumbled, her voice a raspy whisper. The clicking intensified. It was coming from beneath the crumpled bedsheets, which were currently in a state of violent undulation. The previous night pieced itself together in jagged fragments. The Zenith Cup qualifiers. The celebratory (read: consolation) drinks after her underdog team, the ‘Circuit Breakers,’ barely scraped by. The absurd decision to hit Vegas with her sister’s ID—Leona Taris—to finalize the lease on the Scrap Yard depot. The sudden, inexplicable urge to ‘live a little’ after weeks of grinding on instant noodles and existential dread. And then, the maintenance guy. Oh, *the maintenance guy*. Slowly, Junia pushed herself up, her head throbbing in time with the frantic clicking. A glint of gold caught her eye. Tucked beneath an empty bottle of synthetic champagne, a crisp, official-looking document shimmered. Her unsteady fingers reached for it. The heading, embossed in elegant script, screamed its devastating truth: ‘MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE – CLARK COUNTY, NEVADA.’ Her eyes darted to the names. ‘LEONA TARIS.’ And next to it, ‘RENZO CALDAS.’ “No. No, no, *no*,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. Her brilliant, tactical mind, usually a fortress of logical deduction, short-circuited. She, Junia Taris, the banned pro-gamer, had used her sister’s ID to sign a warehouse lease, and now, apparently, she’d used it to legally *marry* a stranger. A broke repairman, from what she recalled of his earlier, sober conversation about his cousin’s broken-down van. The bedsheets convulsed again, more violently this time. A tiny, furry head, adorned with a patchy, grey-brown coat, poked out. Two beady black eyes, brimming with a focused, almost manic intensity, stared back at her. Glitch. The rescue ferret they’d adopted from a sketchy pet shop down on the strip, after a rather spirited bidding war with a guy dressed as a pixelated goblin. Glitch let out a series of chitters and angry grunts, pulling something else from the depths of the duvet. It was a mechanical keyboard switch, glowing with an internal, ethereal blue light. He meticulously added it to a growing pile of identical, glowing switches he’d hoarded on the pillow beside him, guarding his treasure with the ferocity of a dragon. *Click-clack-click-clack-click*. Junia stared at the ferret, then at the marriage certificate, then back at the ferret, her mouth parting in silent disbelief. She had a massive hangover, a furry keyboard-switch hoarder, and a husband she didn’t remember acquiring. This was not how ‘living a little’ was supposed to go. This was a catastrophic tactical error of the highest order. Her plan to crush Narek Voss, her traitorous ex, at the Zenith Cup depended on her maintaining the identity of Leona Taris, the bubbly, cheerful team manager. Getting married to a random guy, especially under false pretenses, was a fast track to exposure and disqualification. Deep breaths. She needed to think. Panic was for rookies. Leona was always cheerful, always oblivious. Junia, the cynical strategist, buried herself deeper. She forced an eager, if strained, grin onto her face. “Well, aren’t *we* a busy little Glitch-meister this morning?” she chirped, her voice two octaves higher than usual. The bed groaned. Junia’s head whipped around. Renzo Caldas, the aforementioned husband, was stirring. He stretched, muscles rippling under smooth, tanned skin. Sunlight caught the faint scar above his left eyebrow. He was shirtless, and, she reluctantly admitted, incredibly well-built for an itinerant mechanic. He opened his eyes, a sleepy, charming grin spreading across his face. “Morning, Leona,” he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated through her, even through her headache. “Quite a night, huh? You were really passionate about the structural integrity of the bathroom pipes.” Junia blinked. Bathroom pipes? “Oh! Oh, yes! Very important, plumbing!” she babbled, her internal Junia-voice screaming in mortification. “A solid infrastructure is key to any successful… um… dwelling!” Renzo chuckled, pushing himself up. He looked remarkably fresh, considering. “Right. Well, consider it a wedding gift, then. I’ve got some time before my cousin needs the truck back. I can swing by your building, fix up whatever leaky nightmares you’ve got going on.” He winked. “No charge for the new spouse, right?” Junia’s mind, despite her best efforts to keep it in ‘bubbly airhead’ mode, latched onto the offer. *Fix the plumbing? No charge?* The Scrap Yard’s ancient pipes had been an endless source of misery, a constant threat to her team’s boot camp. This wasn’t just a penniless drifter. This was a *resource*. A very attractive, very free resource. Her inner strategist, the one that saw opportunities in every chaotic mess, perked up. This was actually… perfect. She could leverage this. Keep him around, keep him fixing things. It would keep her costs down, allowing her to funnel more funds into custom peripherals and high-bandwidth neural interfaces for the team. And keep him from asking too many questions about why she, a supposedly wealthy team manager, was leasing a derelict compound. “Oh, Renzo, you’re too sweet!” she gushed, forcing an even wider, overly bright grin. “That would be absolutely amazing! The… uh… water conduits at the Scrap Yard are a bit… creatively challenged.” He laughed again, a warm, genuine sound. “Creatively challenged. I like that. Alright, let’s get you some coffee, Mrs. Caldas.” *Mrs. Caldas.* The words landed like ice water down her collar. But the plan was forming. She would play the part. Act the naive newlywed, the bubbly manager, the cheerful airhead. Keep him close, keep him useful, keep him from ever suspecting the brilliant, cynical mind hiding beneath the carefully constructed facade. What harm could a temporary, convenient marriage to a charming, penniless laborer do? Hours later, the sun was setting over Oakhaven, painting the towering data-spires in shades of digital gold. Junia’s beat-up cargo van, packed with Glitch’s newly acquired glowing switches (tucked safely into a reinforced travel cage, much to his indignant chitters), rumbled down the grimy, graffiti-laced alleyways of the underground gaming district. Renzo followed in his own, surprisingly pristine, utility truck. The Scrap Yard, a monstrous block of corrugated iron and broken windows, loomed ahead. It was home, however dilapidated. Her sanctuary. Her secret weapon. As they pulled up, something glowed with an aggressive, pulsating amber light on the main door. A holographic projection shimmered, casting an eerie pallor over the rusty metal. Junia killed the engine, her brow furrowing. She froze as she read the stark, unavoidable words. “EVICTION NOTICE – BY ORDER OF THE PHANTOM LANDLORD.”

The Morning After the Tequila