The hotel room in London looked like a convenience store had lost a fight.
Oreos open on the coffee table. Two crushed chip packets. A suspicious mix of chocolate wrappers and something neon that Becky had insisted counted as “fruit adjacent.” The curtains were half drawn—but they kept moving, rattling faintly with every violent gust outside.
Wind howled down the street, loud enough to cut through the glass.
Steph glanced toward the window, twisting an Oreo apart like it had personally offended her. “That’s not normal wind.”
“It’s British wind,” Becky said, feet planted firmly on the table despite multiple protests. “It comes with personality.”
“It sounds like it’s trying to break in.”
“It probably is.”
Hilary, curled into the armchair with the remote, didn’t even look up. “If it gets in, it can help clean this mess.”
“It’ll make it worse,” Steph muttered.
Kiya, sprawled along the couch with one arm over her eyes, hummed faintly. “At least it’ll take the trash with it.”
Another gust rattled the window hard enough to make all of them glance over.
On screen, a weather segment popped up—some overly composed presenter gesturing at a brightly coloured graphic.
TRASH CAN WIND METER.
Hilary blinked, then snorted. “Our situation can’t be all that bad if they’re comparing the weather to lost trash cans.”
Becky let out a quiet, long-suffering exhale.
“What I wouldn’t give,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “to be as oblivious as the general population is about how close we are to the world ending if we don’t win a beyblade tournament.”
Silence.
The wind howled again, like it was agreeing.
Steph twisted another Oreo apart.
Hilary didn’t change the channel.
Kiya shifted slightly, lowering her arm just enough to look at them. “If that scale applied to your mental health… where would you be?”
Her gaze slid, pointed, to Hilary.
Hilary shrugged immediately. “After dealing with Tyson and Daichi today? My lid is definitely flipped open.”
“That’s generous,” Becky muttered.
Steph huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m probably somewhere between the neighbor’s yard and halfway down the street.”
She glanced over. “What about you?”
Becky didn’t even hesitate.
“My boyfriend’s grandfather is our arch nemesis,” she said flatly. “And we’re trying to stop him from taking over the world.”
She reached for another Oreo.
“My trash can is gone.”
Hilary lost it first, dissolving into laughter.
Steph followed, quieter, but nodding like that was a completely reasonable conclusion. “Yeah. No. That checks out.”
Kiya sat up slightly as all three of them turned on her.
“What?” she said, already smiling.
“Well?” Hilary pressed. “Where are you on the scale?”
Kiya let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
“I never had one.”
Steph blinked. “That bad, huh?”
Kiya leaned back again, folding her arms behind her head.
“I’m stuck in Japan with no public bin,” she said. “And I forgot to bring my own portable garbage bag.”
There was a beat.
Then the room broke—laughter spilling over itself, loud and unfiltered.
Outside, something metallic clattered down the street, carried by the wind.
Steph didn’t even look up. “Yeah,” she said through a grin. “There goes someone’s trash can.”
The hotel room in London looked like a convenience store had lost a fight.
Oreos open on the coffee table. Two crushed chip packets. A suspicious mix of chocolate wrappers and something neon that Becky had insisted counted as “fruit adjacent.” The curtains were half drawn—but they kept moving, rattling faintly with every violent gust outside.
Wind howled down the street, loud enough to cut through the glass.
Steph glanced toward the window, twisting an Oreo apart like it had personally offended her. “That’s not normal wind.”
“It’s British wind,” Becky said, feet planted firmly on the table despite multiple protests. “It comes with personality.”
“It sounds like it’s trying to break in.”
“It probably is.”
Hilary, curled into the armchair with the remote, didn’t even look up. “If it gets in, it can help clean this mess.”
“It’ll make it worse,” Steph muttered.
Kiya, sprawled along the couch with one arm over her eyes, hummed faintly. “At least it’ll take the trash with it.”
Another gust rattled the window hard enough to make all of them glance over.
On screen, a weather segment popped up—some overly composed presenter gesturing at a brightly coloured graphic.
TRASH CAN WIND METER.
Hilary blinked, then snorted. “Our situation can’t be all that bad if they’re comparing the weather to lost trash cans.”
Becky let out a quiet, long-suffering exhale.
“What I wouldn’t give,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “to be as oblivious as the general population is about how close we are to the world ending if we don’t win a beyblade tournament.”
Silence.
The wind howled again, like it was agreeing.
Steph twisted another Oreo apart.
Hilary didn’t change the channel.
Kiya shifted slightly, lowering her arm just enough to look at them. “If that scale applied to your mental health… where would you be?”
Her gaze slid, pointed, to Hilary.
Hilary shrugged immediately. “After dealing with Tyson and Daichi today? My lid is definitely flipped open.”
“That’s generous,” Becky muttered.
Steph huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m probably somewhere between the neighbor’s yard and halfway down the street.”
She glanced over. “What about you?”
Becky didn’t even hesitate.
“My boyfriend’s grandfather is our arch nemesis,” she said flatly. “And we’re trying to stop him from taking over the world.”
She reached for another Oreo.
“My trash can is gone.”
Hilary lost it first, dissolving into laughter.
Steph followed, quieter, but nodding like that was a completely reasonable conclusion. “Yeah. No. That checks out.”
Kiya sat up slightly as all three of them turned on her.
“What?” she said, already smiling.
“Well?” Hilary pressed. “Where are you on the scale?”
Kiya let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
“I never had one.”
Steph blinked. “That bad, huh?”
Kiya leaned back again, folding her arms behind her head.
“I’m stuck in Japan with no public bin,” she said. “And I forgot to bring my own portable garbage bag.”
There was a beat.
Then the room broke—laughter spilling over itself, loud and unfiltered.
Outside, something metallic clattered down the street, carried by the wind.
Steph didn’t even look up. “Yeah,” she said through a grin. “There goes someone’s trash can.”
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