From the far end of the sectional, Grey Elwin watched them.
He wasn’t playing actively anymore; his Count Chocula was merely hovering in a Milk Puddle, slowly charging a Sugar Rush meter while everyone else was focused on each other. He cataloged the effortless way Chase and Vincenzo’s bickering had snapped back into its old rhythm, noting every lean and every shared laugh. For Grey, this wasn’t a game night—it was a data point confirming that nostalgia remained the ultimate lubricant for the Viento machine.
His gaze drifted to the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen: The Great Cereal Rebellion. It was a story mode about mascots fighting the “Board of Breakfast” to avoid being homogenized. Chase and Amelia cheered for the pixelated rebellion while sitting in the literal heart of the Silver Spoon Spire, being fed snacks by the very men who owned the spoon. They didn’t see the producer standing in the shadows, and they certainly didn’t see Elvis Santiago.
To them, the “meta guy” from college was just a blurry background extra from a previous season. No longer part of the dream cast.
“Hey, Grey!” Vincenzo called out. “You still awake over there? Your vampire is drowning in a puddle.” Grey blinked. “I’m just strategizing,” he said dryly, his fingers dancing over the controller. “Waiting for the third act twist.” He tapped a button combo with surgical precision.
On screen, Count Chocula unleashed a Final Smash, trapping Tony the Tiger in a chocolate coffin that detonated in a spray of crumbs.
“GAME!” the announcer shouted.
Chase stared at the screen, his mouth slightly open. “Okay,” he said. “That was rude.” Grey allowed himself a small, genuine smile. “Just don’t call it a comeback.”
The ride back was quiet.
Amelia stared out the window, looking softer and more at peace than she had in ages.
“He’s not that bad,” she said. “Vincenzo. I know the contracts are terrifying, and the ‘corporate master thing’ is a lot to take in, but tonight he just seemed like a guy who missed his friend.”
Chase nodded.”I forgot that side of him existed. The branding and the streams… I think it’s just an act, Ames. Underneath, he’s still the guy I used to cut class with.”
“I’m glad,” Amelia said, leaning her head back against the seat. “It makes the Dudleytown trip feel less ominous.” She thought about Snakes in the lobby, muttering his strange prophecies, and compared them to the warmth of the “Decompression Zone.”
The janitor and Tabitha felt like dramatic weirdos now, people who didn’t know the real Vincenzo.
“Tabitha wasn’t a weirdo. She was just a friend who cared,” Amelia let slip out.
“Agreed,” Chase said, reaching over to squeeze her hand in the dark. “A friend who cares. And a friend who is definitely getting a T-shirt from that Twenty One Pilots show.” They drove on, comforted by the familiar weight of the past.
Nostalgia worked.
It always did.