“Corrupted? What fresh hell is this?” Vezza muttered, swiping saltwater from her eyelashes. She’d just saved the world, nearly drowned, and suplexed a future villain onto a marble column. All she wanted was a quiet, sand-between-her-toes retirement. Anything less was grounds for a full-scale System employee revolt. Above the churning pool, the air sheared open with an amber crackle. A rift tore wider, spinning into a tall ring that droned like a brass bell. Past the frame, gentle breakers rolled over white sand framed by leaning date palms under a baked, cloudless sky. Her beach. The exact patch of shore she had dreamed of while wringing brine out of maid skirts. “Finally,” Vezza breathed, resting her raw knuckles on her hip. The memory of leviathan scales and cold brine fell away before that baked shore. She could practically taste chilled rum straight from a green husk. She looked down at Laro, who was still smiling up at her with that unsettlingly sweet expression. He didn't seem to notice the tear in space, staring only at her boot. “Well, don’t just lie there, kiddo,” she said, her voice rough but laced with affection. “World’s saved. Time for your nap. My nap.” She drew in a breath; dry salt and baking palm bark drifted through the opening. It was real. It had to be. This was her reward. She’d earned every single one of those... those *points*. Ten thousand of them. All for preventing the apocalypse and accidentally romancing a disaster. With a renewed surge of energy, Vezza bounded off the pillar, landing with a splash beside Laro. She didn’t even glance at the grand atrium, now a half-demolished ruin filled with debris and the unconscious forms of Vharr’s guards, their faces comically flattened. Her gaze remained fixed on the gateway. She still had her trusty, titanium-reinforced mop clutched in her hand. It had seen her through thick and thin, through kraken tanks and poisoned galas. It was coming with her. A girl needed a good mop, even on a beach. You never knew when a stubborn shell might need cracking. “Here we go, ticket to paradise,” Vezza muttered, lunging toward the glow. The air around her warmed, tasting of salt and distant blossoms. She could hear the gentle rush of waves. This was it. No more Vharrs, no more Laro-induced apocalypses, no more scrubbing barnacles. Just Vezza, her mop, and a lifetime of aggressive relaxation. She shoved through the threshold as the amber flash swallowed her. The sensation was like diving into warm, clear water, then surfacing into crisp, clean air. Her feet met firm, dry ground. The sounds of crashing waves filled her ears. The salty tang of the ocean filled her nose. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, then opened them to behold her glorious reward. And immediately wanted to punch something. Sand crunched under her boots, but each grain lay undisturbed, without a single crab burrow or stray twig. The heat pressed down like a dry greenhouse lamp, and the surf crashed on an exact four-second loop. It was a painted backdrop made solid. And then she saw him. Laro. He stepped through the gateway behind her, the amber glow catching his drenched fringe. He was no longer the drowned, exhausted student from moments ago. His eyes, still intensely blue, gleamed with a dark, triumphant satisfaction that made Vezza tighten her grip on her mop. That dopey smile was back, but now it held an unnerving edge of quiet, absolute possessiveness. He looked like a cat who'd finally caught the canaries, the cage, and the entire birdseed factory. “Welcome home, Vezza,” Laro purred, his voice deeper than she remembered, the sound echoing strangely in the hyper-real silence of the beach. He took a slow, deliberate step towards her. “Our home.” Vezza stared at him, her mop-wielding hand tightening. “What in the seven hells is this, Laro? This isn't real. This is… this is a green screen, isn’t it?” He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “This is real, for us. It’s a reflection of my deepest desire, infused with your… *Salvation Sparks*. Every point you earned, every single one, it was a piece of my abyssal magic. A fragment of my soul. Every time you ‘saved’ me, you wove yourself deeper into my essence.” His gaze dropped to the black mark on her wrist, a tiny, almost invisible tattoo now, but its presence felt suddenly immense. “The binding was completed the moment you took your first step into my sanctuary. When you healed from my magic, the connection became… inescapable.” Ice crawled over the nape of Vezza's neck, colder than any Murro-Vell floodwater. “You mean… the protocol… my ticket home… it was all just… *you*?” Laro took another step, closing the distance. “It was always you, Vezza. You are the only warm thing. The only light. I merely… arranged for the System to guide you. To bring you to me. To give you a reason to accept my… pledge of courtship.” “COURTSHIP?!” Vezza shrieked, her voice cracking. “You think this is romantic? Siphoning your soul to cage me on a painted spit of sand? This isn't a courtship, you feral lunatic, it's a hostile takeover! I demand to speak to the System’s manager! I want a full refund! I want a divorce before we’re even married!” Laro was upon her in an instant, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. His touch was firm, possessive, yet undeniably gentle. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. “You are mine, Vezza. Bound to me. Soul to soul. And I will give you everything you ever wanted. A quiet life. A beach. All the spiked fruit cups you can drink.” He lifted his head, his eyes shining with unholy adoration. “Just tell me when you need a foot massage, my love. Anything for you.” Vezza stiffened in his grip, mop handle wedged between their ribs as the glass-still shoreline stretched on forever. She could feel his heart beating, strong and steady, against her. She could feel the undeniable truth of his words. She was trapped. Trapped with a violently devoted, world-endingly powerful, terrifyingly handsome husband on a beach that was literally made of his soul. “Fine,” she grumbled, scowling as she poked the mop head against his ribs. “If this drink isn't ice-cold, and you don’t rub the tank-scum cramps out of my arches until I forget Murro-Vell exists, I will punch you into another dimension.” She paused, then added, “And put some rum in it, you heathen. It’s retirement, not an exorcism.” She took a furious swallow from the carved shell that materialized in her fingers, sugary lime doing nothing to cool her temper. “Now move it, I’m not asking twice.”

The Ultimate Retirement Plan