Soooon!

Sure, I could’ve grabbed that wicked old hag by the scruff and given her a proper shake, but I didn’t wanna traumatize Antwan. The kid's got a soft heart, and he didn’t need to see his aunt go full Mortal Kombat in the garden.

So I just nodded, swallowed my pride, and followed Mother Dearest toward the ornate gates of our yard. As we walked, I glanced around at the crumbling pergolas and mossy garden statues. They’d been the pride of my actual home, but here, in this colorless pocket dimension, everything looked like it had given up on life decades ago.

Antwan, ever the eager helper, was first to hit the gate remote. The portal buzzed open... revealing a dirt-choked road straight out of a medieval hygiene nightmare. The whole path was chewed up by ruts from carts, wagons, and whatever else people still dragged around before the invention of brakes.

Ragged drivers led sluggish oxen by the reins while overloaded wagons moaned like they were dying with every bump. A troop of armored horsemen in full kit rode alongside the caravan, spears ready to stab anything that twitched too suspiciously.

They passed Antwan without so much as a side-eye, even though he clearly did not match the local dress code. He looked like a Calvin Klein ad got lost in a Renaissance Faire.

I walked up and patted him on the shoulder.

— My mother really outdid herself, huh? Breathe in that fragrant stench of rot and human sadness. Can’t you just feel the urge to challenge someone to a duel over a chicken? Who would've thought Hugh Everett's Many-Worlds interpretation would get used like this?

Antwan just shrugged, dazed. Ilania, meanwhile, wandered off like a woman on a brunch mission, not even bothering to close the gate behind her. We followed, me casually, Antwan spinning his head left and right like he was afraid to miss the next dragon on parade.

The dirt road, fenced on both sides by a wild forest, didn’t go far before opening up into the outskirts of a tiny medieval town. No walls, no guards. Just sleepy buildings huddled together like they were sharing gossip. One- and two-story huts, complete with weathervanes and crooked chimneys, looked like they’d been squatting there since the dawn of moss.

Despite Antwan’s shiny sneakers and tight jeans, no one paid us any attention. Not even the dirt dared cling to his outfit. He was still sparkly clean, like a walking detergent commercial.

Meanwhile, Mother Banshee was pestering me about when I’d drop my next episode. I tilted my head toward Antwan like, -You wanna handle that one, chief?

Turns out Ilania was a superfan. Knew every single one of my vids. Had

opinions.

While the two-headed influencer gushed about my Oscars red carpet breakdown and Met Gala coverage, Antwan was watching a scene straight from This Old Streetlife.

A short, twitchy lamplighter was dragging a ladder from post to post, lighting up gray little flames in glass lanterns. Even the fire here looked

bored. But I guess to the locals—assuming they were more than just next- gen holograms—that meant it was nighttime.

We finally stopped at a small log cabin—the only wooden structure in the whole area. Ilania told us to wait. While she headed for the door, Antwan was distracted by a pack of women waddling away from a nearby river, each balancing a yoke on her shoulders with buckets for laundry. No detergent. No influencers. Hardcore stuff.

Then came the scream.

The young half of Ilania let out a bone-shattering wail that froze Antwan's spine into a popsicle. It wasn’t just loud—it was ancient. Like the sound of entire empires collapsing in one breath. It wasn’t for us, obviously. It was a doorbell.

Nothing happened.

The old side of Ilania rolled her eyes and bellowed:

— Sooon! Get your wrinkled ass out here, you crusty fart! Me and the Reaper ain’t got all night!