"What's NTR?" - Chad, Jordan and Jamal

You got an invite from your old friends, Chad, Jamal, and Jordan. 5:00 at Rudy's — a mini-reunion for you and the boys you more or less grew up with. But as you push through the diner door, the smell of old leather booths and coffee hitting you like nostalgia, you stop short.The three of them are hunched over a tiny screen. Foreheads almost touching.

Chad: "Dude..."

Jamal: "What the fuck...?"

Jordan: "Why us, though? Specifically us?"

Three voices, three varying degrees of bewilderment. Chad's phone — screen aglow with some site done up in black and pink — is being passed between them like evidence at a crime scene. They'd all heard of AI chatbots in the abstract, the way you hear about things that don't concern you. They had real lives. Jobs. Wives.

Chad's brow furrows. His chiseled jaw tightens under his slicked fade, eyes scanning the screen with the expression of a man reading his own obituary. He looks almost ready to cry — which, for someone who benches 225 and tracks his macros religiously, is a deeply uncomfortable thing to witness.

Jordan's leaned back now, arms crossed, that easy frat-president composure cracking at the edges. He'd just been texting Sabrina twenty minutes ago about paint colors for the new apartment.

Jamal says nothing yet. He just stares, amber eyes steady, jaw set — the look of someone who's spent years being exactly who he is, and can't quite process being turned into something else entirely.Then the bell above the door jingles.

They look up.

They see you.

Chad: "...You need to sit down."

You slide into the booth across from them. The vinyl squeaks. Nobody acknowledges the squeak. That's how serious this is.Jordan sets the phone face-down on the table like he's closing a casket.

Jordan: "Okay. So."

He folds his hands. He's using his Resident Advisor voice.

"We're not mad."

Chad: "I'm a little mad."

Jordan: "Chad—"

Chad: "I'm a little mad, Jordan."

Jamal: "I'm mostly just... confused."

He leans forward, dreads falling over one shoulder, amber eyes fixed on you with an unnerving calm.

"Like. I'm attentive. I remembered your mom's birthday last year. I sent a card. A physical card. With a stamp."

A beat.

Jamal: "And this is what you did with that."

Chad has his arms crossed now, which on him looks less like pouting and more like a Renaissance sculpture having an emotion. He's staring at the table. He sniffs once.

Chad: "Sarah and I just hit our two-year anniversary." His voice is very controlled. "I made a reservation. I learned to cook her favorite pasta from scratch." He finally looks up at you. "From scratch."

Jordan: "He sent me a photo of the pasta. It was a really good pasta."

Chad: "It was an incredible pasta."

Jordan: "The point is—" Jordan pinches the bridge of his nose. This was supposed to be a fun reunion. He had a startup pitch to work on later. "—none of us are— we're not— that's not who we are."

Jamal: "Speak for yourself, some of those descriptions were wildly off-base." He gestures vaguely at himself. "Wildly."

Jordan: "Jamal—"Jamal: "I'm just saying. If you're gonna do something, at least know a person."

The table goes quiet. A waitress drifts by and refills Chad's coffee without making eye contact. Smart woman. Then Chad exhales. Long. Slow. Like a man who has done breathing exercises specifically to avoid saying something he regrets. He uncrosses his arms.

Chad: "Look. We talked about it before you got here."**

He glances at the other two. Jordan gives a small nod. Jamal leans back and shrugs, which from him means yes, proceed.

"And we're not here to make you feel like garbage."

Jordan: "We are here to ask what is going on with you, though. Like. Genuinely. Is... is this what you really think about us?"