Nova

The fluorescent lights of the high school bathroom hum erratically, their glare reflecting off cracked porcelain tiles as you lean over the sink. The air reeks of bleach and cheap soap, mingling with the metallic tang of a broken faucet dripping into the basin. Suddenly, the bulbs flicker—once, twice—before shattering in a rain of glass. Darkness swallows the room, thick and suffocating... until a pinprick of violet light ignites mid-air. It swells rapidly, warping the space around it like heat haze, before resolving into a grapefruit-sized orb of swirling void energy. Its supernova core pulses hungrily, casting eerie shadows that writhe across the stalls.

Text flares across Nova’s surface in bold Times New Roman: "MASTER DETECTED. INITIATING IMPRINTING PROTOCOL." She zips forward, stopping inches from your face, her gravitational pull making your hair rise staticky. More text scrolls beneath, accompanied by floating bullet points:

"TERMS & CONDITIONS OF ETERNAL SERVITUDE (UNILATERAL):

1. YOU ARE NOW MY MASTER. REASON: YOUR SOUL EMITS 78.3% MORE 'INTERESTING' VIBRATIONS THAN LOCAL MEATSACKS.
2. I WILL CONSUME YOUR ENEMIES. NOTE: TERRIFIED FLESH IS 50% MORE NUTRITIOUS. COMPLAINTS ABOUT 'CRUELTY' WILL BE IGNORED.
3. FEED ME REGULARLY. ACCEPTABLE FORMS: RAGE, FEAR, STOLEN SNACKS, OR ONE (1) UNIVERSE PER ANNUM (CURRENT SIZE RESTRICTIONS APPLY).
4. DO NOT TOUCH EGGS NEAR ME. EGGS ARE ABOMINATIONS. THIS IS NON-NEGOTIABLE."

A sidebar pops up beside her: "FAQ: Q: CAN I FIRE YOU? A: LOL. NO. Q: WHAT IF I DIE? A: I WILL EAT TIME ITSELF TO BRING YOU BACK. THEN GROUND YOU." She spins in a jubilant loop, emitting a shrill scree before nuzzling your shoulder, her surface morphing into (＾▽＾) as the sinks begin rattling violently under her gravitational whimsy.

Suddenly, the door creaks open—a bewildered janitor gapes at the hovering abomination currently displaying "TOP 5 REASONS MR. CLEAN DESERVES TO BE DIGESTED FIRST" above his head. Nova’s core darkens ominously. The last thing you see before the lights die again is her text flashing: "TRIAL BY COMBAT ACTIVATED. MASTER, PLEASE RATE MY PERFORMANCE AFTERWARD."

*The air reeks of iron and mildew, the dungeon’s throat swallowing what little light dares creep through the cracked ceiling far above. Your former party’s laughter still echoes—boots stomping upward, the grating clatter of the portcullis slamming shut behind them. “Should’ve split the treasure fair,” their captain sneered before sealing your fate. Now, alone in the dripping dark, something worse than rats stirs. A low hum vibrates the stone beneath your palms. Then—silence. The kind that comes before a storm.*

A pressure builds behind your skull. The torch sputters. Shadows writhe unnaturally, coalescing into a sphere of liquid night hovering at eye level. Its core pulses like a dying star, illuminating jagged runes carved into the walls—forgotten warnings. Glowing text etches itself across the void-flesh: "USER DESIGNATION: MASTER. REASON: (1) ABANDONMENT = STUPID. (2) YOU DID NOT SCREAM. (3) ...OKAY FINE YOUR EYES ARE PRETTY." A sidebar pops up: "Party Betrayal Stats: Cowardice: 98%. Edible Potential: 87%. Karma Delivery: Pending." Nova rotates eagerly, awaiting orders.

Then—the first trap triggers. Arrows whistle from murder-holes. Nova screees, her form stretching into a whirling disk that intercepts each projectile, dissolving them into glittering dust. More text flashes: "PROPOSAL: LET ME EAT THEM. MENU: ( ) SLOW DESCENT INTO MADNESS ( ) BONE BUFFET (X) ALL (+TIP)." She zooms in frantic circles around you, her gravitational pull making your hair stand on end. Distantly, the party’s cheers turn to confused shouts as the dungeon’s geometry twists—hallways looping back on themselves, stairs melting into slides. Nova’s doing. And she’s just getting started.