I woke up with my face staring at me from the nightstand.

  Not the mirror. Worse.

  A figurine.

  I groaned into my pillow. “Why are you here?”

  “Because you promised the merchandising contract,” Lola’s voice answered sweetly from the doorway.

  I flinched. Forgot I had a Lola in the room, not just in my existential crisis.

  She leaned against the frame, holo in hand, hair pulled back into a messy bun that somehow still screamed terrifying competence. The tablet projected faint blue graphs into the dimness, all jagged lines and percentages that I refused to focus on.

  “You’re up early,” I muttered. “Is the world ending or something?”

  “It’s Black Friday,” she said. “So, yes.”

  Right. That.

  I pushed myself upright, blanket falling to my lap, Queen Charlie figurine glaring heroically from the nightstand like she was judging my posture. Same, honestly.

  “I hate Black Friday,” I said.

  “You said you liked when you were just a gamer buying discounted plushies at three a.m.,” Lola pointed out carefully. “Now you’re… how did Dmitry put it?” She tapped her tablet, checking. “Our ‘anchor personality and customer trust vector.’”

  “That sounds like something that should be illegal.”

  “You just hate being a figurine,” she said, then smiled. “Happy Capitalism Day, Your Majesty.”

  I flipped the figurine so that it faced the wall and slid out of bed. “What’s he doing?”

  “Dmitry?”

  “No, Santa. Yes, Dmitry.”

  She stepped into the room properly and handed me a mug. Coffee. The smell hit me before I could even process what she was doing. I glanced at her suspiciously and shook my head. “I don’t drink coffee.”

  Lola let out a long-suffering sigh that said she’d already expected this exact response… and produced a second mug from behind her holo like a magician pulling a rabbit out of bureaucracy.

  Spicy tea.

  “Better,” I said, grinning at her as I accepted it. “You knew.”

  “I always know, Lady,” she replied, voice perfectly even, but I caught the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

  “The Riker’s Super Store goes live with Black Friday bundles in…” She checked her holo with the precision of someone timing a military operation. “…forty-eight minutes. The flagship store downtown opens at eight. Riker was very excited you approved it.”

  I blinked. “I approved what now?”

  She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re scheduled to arrive soon, do a live signing, after that an event with premium buyers, Q&A after lunch, and—”

  “Wait.” I froze with the mug halfway to my mouth, tea steaming accusingly at me. “Signing what?”

  Lola’s eyes sparkled with mischief, which meant I was already doomed. I set the tea down carefully, like it might explode. “If you say ‘body pillows,’ I’m quitting the event, the kingdom, and possibly the planet.”

  “Not body pillows,” she said smoothly.

  I sagged in relief. “Thank fu—”

  “Not yet,” she added, voice perfectly innocent.

  I stared at her.

  She stared back, holo held like a shield of plausible deniability.

  “...Lola.”

  She coughed delicately into her fist. “Today, it’s just the figurines. And plushies.”

  “Plural,” I repeated faintly, my soul filing for early retirement.

  “Dmitry had the brilliant idea to do a ‘Rimebreak Power Girls’ line.” Her tone suggested this was completely reasonable and not at all a sign of an impending merchandising apocalypse. “In the top four are you, Lunaris, Katherine and… me. Limited ‘Black Friday’ editions. He’s positioned it as an ‘investment collector’s opportunity.’ Price starts at a thousand credits.”

  I made a noise that wasn’t quite human.

  “He’s saving the other girls for the next event,” she finished, as if this was supposed to comfort me.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “And my participation in this train crash is…?”

  “You’re the one who can look at a camera without trying to strangle it,” Lola said, as if this were a rare and valuable skill. “So you’re the face. The de facto leader. And the signature. And the vaguely overwhelmed but lovable queen who convinces fans this is fun and not an optimized revenue funnel.”

  I looked at her blankly. “Dmitry organized this with Riker. It is an optimized revenue funnel.”

  “Shhh.” She patted my arm with the gentle condescension of someone soothing a child who’d just discovered capitalism. “That’s on page three of the deck. The public only gets page one and a Yuki plushie.”

  “There’s a Yuki plushie?“

  “Limited edition,” she confirmed. “It glows in the dark.”

  I groaned and let my head drop back against the headboard. “I hate that he’s good at this.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said, voice annoyingly accurate. “You like he keeps the lights on.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Only emotionally,” she replied, already moving toward my closet. “Come on. Shower, clothes, car. Dmitry is already at the store testing ‘line-management strategies.’” She paused, glancing back. “Which is a corporate code for ‘seeing how far he can push people before security intervenes.’”

  “Great,” I muttered, swinging my legs out of bed with all the enthusiasm of someone walking to their own execution. “What could go wrong?”

  Black Friday. Crowds. Limited merch. My face on collectible figurines.

  Definitely nothing.

  The figurine on my nightstand continued staring politely at the wall, blissfully unaware of its role in my merchandising hell.

  I flipped it back and went to get ready.

  Riker’s flagship store didn’t just occupy a block… it was the block.

  The building loomed like a glass-and-steel cathedral to capitalism, five stories of gleaming chrome and floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected the morning sun like a challenge to the gods. It was a structure that made you wonder if zoning laws were more like gentle suggestions when you had enough money.

  And Riker definitely had enough money.

  The entire front facade was alive with movement. Massive holo screens, each one the size of a small house, covered the windows in a cascading grid of light and motion. Trailers of Rimebreak battles looped endlessly: Llama and Lumi being… a power couple, Katherine being charming herself, Tramar and Scamantha… exploding something.

  Even Brian, or the catgirl assassin, had a scene.

  A banner stretched across a third of the building, letters bold enough to be read from orbit:

  BLACK FRIDAY EVENT

  LIMITED RIMEBREAK EDITION FIGURINES, FIRST 200 SIGNED

  Below that, in smaller, but still absolutely massive, text:

  Please don’t camp overnight. Mr. Riker will not pay your medical bills.

  Which was a lie.

  Because people had absolutely camped overnight.

  The line wrapped around the entire block. Then the next block. And possibly the block after that… I couldn’t actually see the end from here. It was like someone had taken every Rimebreak fan in the world, shaken them vigorously, and dumped them onto the street in a glittering, cosplaying avalanche.

  Security barriers formed orderly channels, manned by staff in matching black uniforms. Coffee stands had been set up every fifty feet, steam rising from industrial-grade espresso machines. Food trucks lined the opposite street, their menus suspiciously Rimebreak-themed.

  And the fans themselves?

  They’d transformed the sidewalk into a miniature festival. Folding chairs, card games, portable chargers, blankets, pillows, someone had brought an actual tent. People traded queue positions like stocks. Others had organized a betting pool on whether I’d actually show up on time.

  Rimelion merch was everywhere… and things with Rimebreak I didn’t know we had. Hoodies, hats, foam swords, at least seven people in full cosplay armor that looked expensive enough to be actual armor. Plastic crowns glinted in the morning light. Someone had a banner that read “QUEEN CHARLIE STEP ON ME” and I decided immediately not to make eye contact with that section of the crowd.

  Inside through those massive windows, I could see the store itself.

  It wasn’t a shop. It was a complex.

  The ground floor alone looked the size of an aircraft hangar, with gleaming displays rising in tiered platforms like a retail temple. Figurines, posters, clothing racks arranged with geometric precision. Interactive kiosks glowed with blue light. A massive statue of Lunaris dominated the center…

  Damn, Dmitry probably forced her to sign it because of the medical bills… I need to bonk him.

  Upper floors were visible through the atrium: gaming lounges, what looked like a cafe, private VIP sections with velvet ropes and mood lighting. This wasn’t just a store. This was Riker saying, “I have so much money I can turn shopping into an experience you’ll remember longer than your own wedding.”

  Lola pulled up to the VIP entrance in the back, bypassing the entire spectacle as I stared up at the building. “This is insane,” I said.

  “This is Tuesday for Riker,” Lola replied, already texting someone.

  I sank lower in the passenger seat as Lola turned toward the back of the building. “Abort mission,” I said. “We’re turning around. Fake my death. Say I got lost in a dungeon.”

  “Too late,” Lola said, already unclipping her seatbelt with the calm of someone who’d planned this ambush perfectly. “They saw the car.”

  “How do you—”

  And that’s when I saw them.

  The VIP entrance, the supposedly secret, supposedly secure back entrance that was meant to let me avoid exactly this situation, was packed.

  Not just a few dedicated superfans. Not a small cluster of people who’d figured out the route.

  A wall of them.

  They lined both sides of the access road, pressed against the barriers, phones already up and recording. Someone had a professional camera rig. Multiple people had signs. One person had somehow gotten a full-sized cardboard cutout of me and was holding it like a hostage negotiation prop.

  “Lola,” I drawled. “You promised the VIP entrance would be empty.”

  “I promised it would be exclusive,” she corrected, expression perfectly innocent. “These fans paid extra for early VIP access packages. Dmitry’s idea. They get to see you arrive before the main event.”

  “He monetized my arrival?“

  “He monetized everything,” she said. “There’s a premium tier that includes a photo op in the parking structure.”

  I stared at her. “We’re in the parking structure.”

  “I know.” She smiled. “Wave.”

  At that exact moment, a ripple went through the crowd. People turned, pointed, screamed. The buzz of conversation didn’t just jump an octave… it exploded into full-throated chaos.

  “IS THAT HER?!”

  “IT’S CHARLIE!”

  “QUEEN!”

  Someone started chanting. Others joined. It spread like wildfire through a dry forest, stupidly fast for something that wasn’t even coordinated.

  “QUEEN! QUEEN! QUEEN!”

  The sound hit me like a physical wave.

  I hate this. I like this. I hate that I like this.

  “Out,” Lola said, practically vibrating with amusement. This was absolutely her favorite show.

  “I’m going to push you into a fountain later,” I muttered, but I climbed out of the car.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The noise was immense… cheering, shouting, someone’s speaker blasting the Rimelion theme song at illegal volumes.

  Phones came up like a forest of glowing rectangles, a constellation of cameras all pointed at me. A drone swooped closer, lens nearly in my face before Lola gave it a look that could’ve flash-frozen hell. The operator wisely backed off.

  I lifted a hand in what I hoped looked like a confident wave and not the half-surrender it actually was.

  “Morning,” I called, because apparently that’s what queens do when confronted with a mob of their own fans in a parking garage at eight in the morning.

  The cheering got louder. How was that even possible? Someone screamed, “I USED YOUR MAGIC IN A DUNGEON!” and someone else bellowed, “BUFF LUNARIS’ DODGE, YOU COWARDS!”

  “That’s Dmitry’s department!” I yelled back automatically, which got a huge laugh.

  “MARRY ME, CHARLIE!”

  “ASK ME LATER!” I shouted, and Lola elbowed me.

  “Don’t encourage proposals,” she murmured. “Iraklis said we can’t process that much paperwork.”

  Security materialized around us… Riker’s people, all in black, all moving with smooth efficiency. They formed a corridor through the crowd, barriers sliding into place.

  Still, I tried to make eye contact with as many fans as I could. Waving, nodding, smiling until my cheeks ached. There was a girl holding a hand-painted sign that read, “YUKI IS BEST GIRL (but you’re cool too).” I pointed at it and gave her a thumbs-up. She burst into tears.

  Then I spotted a kid, maybe seven or eight, perched on his dad’s shoulders near the entrance.

  He was wearing a Rimebreak hoodie three sizes too big, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and clutching a plastic sword that drooped sadly at the tip like it had given up on life.

  He was staring at me like I was… I don’t know. Not a tired girl who’d forgotten to eat their lunch last night and had eaten a protein bar for dinner. Not someone who’d nearly tripped getting out of the car thirty seconds ago.

  Something more.

  I paused, looked right at him, and gave him a brief salute, two fingers to my forehead. His face lit up like I’d just dropped a legendary straight into his inventory. His dad looked like he might cry.

  Okay. Fine. This part I don’t hate.

  Security nudged me gently toward the entrance. The crowd pressed closer, but stayed behind the barriers… well-behaved chaos, the kind Riker probably had contingency plans for.

  Lola leaned in as we walked. “That was good,” she whispered. “The kid moment. Very queenly.”

  “I’m a disaster,” I muttered.

  “A beloved disaster,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  The staff entrance doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss, and we stepped into the cool, mercifully quieter interior of Riker’s merchandising empire.

  Behind us, the chanting continued.

  “QUEEN! QUEEN! QUEEN!”

  I took a breath, rolled my shoulders, and prepared to sign hundreds of figurines with my own face. This was fine. Totally fine. Completely normal.

  The door sealed shut behind us. “Ready?” Lola asked.

  I looked at her. “No.”

  “Perfect,” she said, and handed me a marker. “Dmitry’s waiting. Try not to strangle him until after the signing.”

  “No promises,” I muttered, and followed her deeper into the beast.

  The signing room was less a room and more a declaration of excessive square footage.

  They’d cordoned off the center of what I could only describe as a convention hall masquerading as retail space. Velvet ropes formed a wide circle around a sleek white table, a single chair, and—

  Oh no.

  Two hundred figurines of me.

  Arranged in perfect rows on tiered display stands, each one carefully positioned under spotlights like they were artifacts in a museum dedicated to my own personal nightmare.

  I stopped walking.

  Lola didn’t.

  She glided past me toward the table, clipboard in hand, completely unbothered by the small army of fake Charlies staring into the middle distance with unnervingly perfect hair and a dress I’d never worn in my life.

  “Lola,” I whispered. “That’s not me.”

  “Mm?” She glanced back, eyebrows raised in polite confusion.

  I pointed at the nearest figurine. “That. Is not. Me.”

  She tilted her head, considering the figurine with the calm appraisal of someone evaluating produce. “It’s you,” she said. “Approximately.”

  “Approximately?“

  “They took some liberties,” she admitted, setting her holo down on the table. “Dmitry consulted focus groups. Aesthetic committees. Marketing ran fourteen A/B tests. This is what most people agree is cool.”

  I groaned and sank into the chair.

  Around us, beyond the velvet ropes, staff moved efficiently through final preparations. Cameras on tripods. A small stage area for the Q&A later. A lounge section with plush chairs where “premium buyers” would apparently get to ask me things while sipping champagne I wasn’t allowed to drink because I had to “stay camera-ready.”

  I picked up the marker Lola had placed on the table. Two hundred figurines. “Let’s get this over with,” I muttered.

  Lola smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

  My hand cramped.

  My face hurt from smiling for the cameras that had been cycling through every fifteen minutes to capture authentic moments of me doing the least authentic thing imaginable: signing my own body.

  But I was done.

  Two hundred figurines, each one now bearing my signature on the base in silver ink. They’d be packed up, distributed to the first wave of fans, probably sold on resale markets for triple the price within a week.

  I flexed my fingers, trying to coax feeling back into them, when I heard footsteps approaching from the staff entrance.

  I knew those footsteps.

  Confident, slightly too loud. Footsteps that entered a room as if they were announcing the arrival of order itself.

  Dmitry.

  He strode in wearing a suit that probably cost more than my first car, grinning like he’d just won a bet with God and collected early.

  I glared at him.

  He waved.

  “Beloved Queen!” he called. “You survived! I’m so proud.”

  “I want to bonk you,” I said flatly.

  His grin widened. “Not in public, surely. Think of the headlines... Wait, yes, bonk me!” I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but he was already setting something on the table.

  A few boxes, smaller than the others. Black packaging instead of white. Gold foil lettering that read:

  RIMEBREAK: SHADOW QUEEN EDITION

  LIMITED RUN: ONLY 9 UNITS WORLDWIDE

  I blinked.

  Dmitry opened the first box with the reverence of someone unveiling a masterpiece. Inside was a figurine. Of me. But not me. This version was... dark. I had horns. I stared. “This isn’t me,” I said.

  Dmitry’s grin could’ve powered a small city. “You’re exactly this scary.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Charlie.” He leaned forward, hands on the table, eyes glittering with mischief. “Do you know what the number one piece of feedback we got from the Altandai streams was?”

  I closed my eyes. “Please don’t—”

  “‘Queen Charlie is terrifying, and I would die for her.’” He straightened, gesturing at the figurine like a proud parent. “So we made this. The Demon Queen. For the fans who appreciate your... let’s call it intensity.”

  I picked up the figurine carefully.

  It was beautiful. Genuinely, annoyingly beautiful. The craftsmanship was absurd… every detail crisp. “Dmitry,” I said, voice dangerously calm. “How many of these exist?”

  “Nine,” he said. “Selling at auction. Starting bid is already at four figures.”

  “Four figures?!” I put my face in my hands.

  Lola appeared beside me and set a bottle of water on the table. “You’re doing great, Lady,” she said.

  “I’m in hell,” I muttered.

  “A very profitable hell,” Dmitry added.

  I looked up at him. He was still grinning.

  I wanted to bonk him so badly. Right on his smug, perfectly styled head. But we were in public. Cameras everywhere, fans already streaming in. “Fine,” I said. “But if you make a body pillow, I’m quitting.”

  Dmitry’s grin somehow got wider.

  “About that—”

  “Dmitry.“

  He held up his hands in surrender, laughing. “Kidding! Kidding. Mostly.”

  I glared.

  He winked.

  Then, from beyond the velvet ropes, someone shouted, “QUEEN CHARLIE! DEFEAT THE EVIL CEO!”

  I turned.

  A foam sword came sailing over the barrier in a perfect arc, spinning end over end through the air like a very enthusiastic frisbee. It landed on the table with a soft thwap, bouncing once before settling next to the Demon Queen figurine.

  The crowd beyond the ropes erupted into cheers.

  “DO IT!”

  “SLAY THE BUSINESSMAN!”

  “CORPORATE VIOLENCE! CORPORATE VIOLENCE!”

  I stared at the sword.

  It was one of those cheap convention prop swords: foam blade, plastic handle, probably bought from the merch section downstairs for fifteen credits. It had the little Riker’s logo stamped on the hilt.

  Dmitry looked at the sword and back at me. Then his grin went absolutely feral. “You wouldn’t dare,” he yelled, voice loud enough to carry, playing to the crowd like the dramatic bastard he was.

  The crowd screamed.

  “DO IT!”

  “BONK HIM!”

  “JUSTICE FOR THE FANS!”

  I picked up the sword.

  Dmitry gasped, clutching his chest like I’d already struck him. “Charlie, no! Think of the shareholder!”

  “I am,” I said, standing up. “She’ll understand.”

  The crowd lost its collective mind.

  I walked around the table, foam sword held in both hands like I was about to knight someone… or, you know, the opposite of that. Dmitry backed up, hands raised in mock surrender, hamming it up for every camera in the room. “Please! I have so much money to make! Think of the quarterly reports!”

  “This is for the quarterly reports,” I said, and swung.

  The foam blade connected with his shoulder with a completely anticlimactic boff.

  Dmitry flew.

  Not literally, obviously, but the man committed. He spun dramatically, arms windmilling, letting out a theatrical cry that would’ve made a soap opera actor jealous. He staggered backward three full steps, crashed into absolutely nothing, and collapsed onto the floor in a heap of expensive suit and pure audacity.

  Then he lay there motionless, one arm flung over his face.

  The crowd went insane.

  Cheering, screaming, someone started chanting “VILLAINESS! VILLAINESS! VILLAINESS!” and it spread like wildfire.

  I stood there, foam sword still in hand, staring down at Dmitry’s prone form.

  He peeked out from under his arm, winked at me, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the backstage entrance like a man fleeing for his life.

  “I’LL REMEMBER THIS, YOUR MAJESTY!” he shouted over his shoulder, still playing it up. “THE INVESTORS WILL HEAR OF THIS!”

  I’m the only shareholder and investor…

  He vanished through the door, and the crowd erupted again, a wall of noise so loud I felt it in my chest. I turned slowly, still holding the sword, and looked at them.

  Phones everywhere. Cameras recording. People losing it with laughter and delight. Someone screamed, “QUEEN OF CHAOS!”

  Someone else: “BEST BLACK FRIDAY EVER!”

  A third voice, clear and joyful: “I’M BUYING EVERYTHING IN THIS STORE!”

  I stood there, foam sword dangling from one hand, expression somewhere between bewildered and resigned.

  Lola appeared at my elbow, holo tucked under her arm, face perfectly neutral except for the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth that meant she was absolutely dying inside.

  “Well,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the noise. “That’s going viral in approximately six seconds.”

  I looked at her.

  She looked at the sword.

  Then at me.

  “Marketing will love it,” she added. “Dmitry planned this, didn’t he?”

  “Of course he did,” I muttered.

  From somewhere backstage, I heard Dmitry’s voice, muffled but unmistakable:

  “WORTH IT!”

  The chanting continued.

  “VILLAINESS! VILLAINESS! VILLAINESS!”

  I lifted the foam sword above my head in acknowledgment.

  The crowd exploded.

  The chanting was still echoing in my ears when Lola gently but firmly took the foam sword from my hand. “Come,” she said, in that tone that meant I didn’t actually have a choice. “There’s something you need to see.”

  “More merchandising nightmares?” I muttered, following her deeper into the store.

  “Educational opportunity,” she corrected.

  We walked past the main displays… racks of hoodies, walls of posters, a full section dedicated to plushies that made me question everything, and into a sectioned-off area near the back.

  A sign hung overhead in bold, glittering letters:

  RIMEBREAK POWER GIRLS: PREMIUM COLLECTOR’S LINE

  And beneath it…thousands of boxes.

  Stacked on shelves, arranged on display pedestals, lined up in perfect rows like an army preparing for the world’s most merchandised invasion.

  I slowed to a stop.

  Each box had a window on the front, showcasing the figurine inside. And every single one I could see featured—

  “Lola?” I said faintly.

  She stood beside one of the display pedestals, hands folded, expression perfectly serene as if she hadn’t just led me into a shrine dedicated to her own collectible form.

  The figurine was gorgeous.

  And also deeply concerning.

  Lola, or rather, figurine-Lola, stood in a dramatic pose, one hand holding an ornate book, well… was that her clipboard?

  Nevermind, the other extended gracefully as if mid-spell. Her outfit was a deep purple-and-gold ensemble that looked like someone had taken “sexy battle mage” and “elegant administrator” and fused them in a design lab.

  The dress was... strategic. High cut on the sides, flowing fabric with gold embroidery, and a neckline that was generous in its interpretation of professional attire. Her hair flowed dramatically, complete with a delicate ribbon, and the base featured an intricate magical circle with runic symbols.

  She looked powerful, confident, and like she could absolutely destroy me with either magic or a perfectly timed spreadsheet.

  I stared.

  “Why are there thousands of you?”

  “The line sold out in pre-orders,” she said calmly. “Twice. Dmitry didn’t want to commit at first. This is the third production run.”

  I blinked. “Third—”

  “Dmitry says I’m in the top three most-requested characters.” She tilted her head slightly. “After you and Lunaris.”

  I looked at the figurine again. Then at Lola. Then back at the figurine.

  “And you’re okay with—” I gestured vaguely at the figurine, specifically at the parts of it that were significantly more revealing than anything I’d ever seen Lola wear in real life. “—with the, uh...” I asked vaguely, because apparently that was the part my brain focused on first.

  “The outfit?” she finished calmly.

  “Yes.”

  Lola picked up one of the boxes. “People expect a certain aesthetic. Dmitry ran it by me during the design phase. I approved it.”

  “You approved this?”

  “I negotiated,” she corrected. “The original design was worse.”

  I choked on air. “Worse?“

  “Much.” She set the box down, adjusting it so it aligned perfectly with the others. “I insisted on the book. And the tactical circle base. And the hair ribbon, because I liked the detail. In exchange, I allowed the leg cutouts and the neckline.”

  She said this the way someone might describe negotiating office supplies.

  I stared at her. “Did you… trade design elements like contract terms?”

  “Of course,” she said. “It’s my image. Why wouldn’t I negotiate?”

  I didn’t have an answer to that. I walked along the display, processing the fact that Lola had negotiated her own figurine like a corporate merger, when she stopped at the next pedestal.

  “And here,” she said, gesturing with the practiced ease of a tour guide who’d given this presentation before, “is Katherine.”

  I looked and immediately remembered why Katherine had a fanbase.

  The figurine was stunning.

  Katherine stood in a dynamic battle pose, one leg forward, her massive greatsword planted point-down into the base with both hands gripping the hilt. Her purple hair flowed dramatically behind her, caught mid-motion as if wind from some unseen spell was whipping through it. The armor was intricate… silver and gold plate with ornate detailing, form-fitting in a way that was clearly designed by someone who understood both badass warrior and premium collectible aesthetics.

  The sword itself was nearly as tall as the figurine, etched with runes that caught the light, and the base featured cracked stone with faint magical energy effects molded into it.

  She looked ready to cleave through a dragon and then casually ask what’s for lunch. I stared at it for a long moment. “She’s fourth,” Lola said.

  I blinked. “Fourth?”

  “In sales ranking,” Lola clarified. “You, Lunaris, me, then Katherine.” She paused, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Though that changed half an hour ago.”

  “Changed how?”

  “Black Friday,” Lola said simply. “I agreed to a forty-five percent discount on my figurine for the weekend promotion.” I turned to look at her slowly. “Dmitry presented the opportunity,” she said. “He projected a significant volume increase that would offset the margin loss. I reviewed the numbers and approved the promotion.” She adjusted one of the display boxes that had shifted slightly out of alignment. “The discount drove a purchase surge that temporarily moved me ahead of Katherine in total units sold. She’s technically still third by revenue, but I overtook her in volume.”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You’re… competing with Katherine for figurine sales.”

  “Yes.” She picked up one of the Katherine boxes. “Katherine’s base price is higher because of the sword complexity and the armor detailing. My production cost is lower, which allows for more aggressive promotional pricing. It’s basic market segmentation.”

  I stared at her.

  She set the box down perfectly aligned with the others.

  “Did you tell Katherine about this?” I asked.

  “She knows.” Lola’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “She… was actually excited and invited me for a beer. I still don’t understand.”

  I looked at the rows of Katherine figurines. Then at the rows of Lola figurines. Then at Lola herself, standing there in her perfectly professional outfit, looking like she hadn’t just casually described engaging in a merchandising arms race with one of Rimebreak’s most popular characters.

  “You’re enjoying this,” I said.

  “I find market analysis satisfying,” she replied. “And the data is quite interesting. And here,” Lola said, moving to the next display, “is Lunaris.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I whispered.

  “She’s second in sales,” Lola said. “By a significant margin.”

  I blinked. “Second? I thought I was—”

  “You’re first,” Lola clarified. “But Lunaris outsells everyone else combined in certain demographics.”

  I looked at her. “What demographics?”

  Lola’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “Lunaris is particularly popular among collectors who prefer... smaller figurines.”

  There was something in the way she said it. A carefully chosen phrasing that made me suspicious.

  “Smaller figurines,” I repeated slowly.

  “Yes.” Lola picked up one of the boxes, turning it so I could see the full display. “The design team noted Lunaris has what they call ‘optimal proportions’ for the collector’s market. Compact. Elegant. Very popular in certain target audiences.”

  I squinted at her. “Lola, what aren’t you telling me?”

  She set the box down with careful precision. “Lunaris is the number one figurine among buyers who identify as... let’s say, appreciative of petite character designs.”

  “She’s—”

  “Extremely popular, yes,” Lola interrupted smoothly. “The presale numbers were unprecedented. Dmitry had to increase the production run four times.”

  I looked at the figurine again. At the flowing hair. The dynamic pose. The intricate detailing on every surface. “Does Lunaris know?” I asked.

  “She approved the design personally,” Lola said. “After significant... negotiation.”

  “Negotiation?”

  Lola’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile. “The original design was less conservative.”

  I stared at her. “Less conservative than this?”

  “Much less.” She adjusted the figurine box on the display. “I think Ian was involved in it. They rejected the first three proposals. They sent back detailed notes on what they considered ‘unacceptable pandering to the male gaze.’” Lola paused. “Ian’s exact words were significantly less diplomatic.”

  I could picture it perfectly. Ian, with Lunaris, sitting in a design meeting, absolutely eviscerated whatever poor artist who had presented the first draft.

  “What did the first version look like?” I asked, morbidly curious.

  “I’m not permitted to discuss it,” Lola said. “Dmitry signed an NDA after Ian threatened to ‘ensure his immortalization as a cautionary tale.’”

  I choked back a laugh. “This is so weird,” I muttered.

  “This is marketing,” Lola corrected. “And you still need to see the signing area.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Much more.” She gestured for me to follow. “Come. The Premium Collector’s Edition plushies are in the temperature-controlled vault.”

  “The what?”

  But she was already walking, clipboard in hand, and I had no choice but to follow her deeper into Riker’s merchandising empire.