Look, I consider myself a reasonable person. I’ve covered city council meetings, a man who claimed to be married to his blender, and that whole debacle with the mayor’s one-eyed pet weasel: ‘Mayor Junior.’ But sitting across from me was a man whose entire existence looked like a craft store exploded? I had to draw the line somewhere.

  “Let me double-check this...” I flipped through my notes, fighting the urge to rub my temples. My journalism professor always said maintain objectivity, but frankly, he never had to interview a human disco ball. “You willingly signed up for an experimental procedure in a strip mall, and now you’re permanently coated in glitter, and I quote, ‘allergic to your own fantabulous existence?’”

  Glitter stretched—languid, catlike—on his pink velvet chaise lounge. The thing looked like Liberace’s fever dream, with tassels that sparkled under the fairy lights strung above us. He let the silence hang, milking every second like this was an Oscar-worthy performance. Finally, he sighed with all the drama of a daytime soap actor discovering a secret twin. “Yes. My pain is immeasurable.”

  I blinked. Slowly. Somewhere in the back of my head, I could hear my journalism degree sobbing. “Right.”

  Before I could press the issue—because oh boy, did I have questions—the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the rooftop terrace. I turned just in time to see one of Glitter’s minions skitter into view. No taller than four feet, dressed head-to-toe in black leather studded with rhinestones, and wearing a helmet that sparkled like it had been dipped in the dreams of a Lisa Frank folder. The effect was somewhere between futuristic bounty hunter and glamorous action figure accessory.

  “Boss!” the minion squeaked, voice high enough to make me wince. He fiddled with a bedazzled walkie-talkie clipped to their belt—because apparently, in this criminal empire, even communication devices weren’t safe from the glitter onslaught. “There’s a guy downstairs claiming he’s here for tonight’s interview!”

  Glitter’s gaze slid toward me, eyes narrowing just enough to make me second-guess every life choice that had brought me to this rooftop. The silence stretched. Long enough for me to consider making a break for the elevator.

  “Take care of him,” Glitter said finally, voice calm—as if ordering dessert. Bomb-voyage, please.

  The minion saluted—an enthusiastic little wave that sent rhinestones scattering from their sleeve—and bolted off. Moments later, there was a muffled POP, a distant shriek of pain, and what could only be described as an impressively creative string of expletives.

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  My grip on my notepad tightened. “Was that…?”

  “Governments are always so zealous with their intelligence agents and spies,” Glitter said breezily, waving a hand like he was explaining an unexpected parking ticket. “Or assassins. Or, once, a singing telegram—but that was more emotionally damaging than anything.” He paused, eyes going distant. “Terrible pitch.”

  I cleared my throat, deciding not to unpack that. “And you didn’t think I was a spy?”

  Glitter’s laugh rolled out—low, theatrical, the kind of laugh that echoed through a doomed hero’s last moments…right before the villain’s own plan collapsed in on itself. “Please. You struggle to interview me, and I’m practically gift-wrapped entertainment. How would you survive as a spy?”

  He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like an art critic staring at a suspiciously blank canvas. “Frankly, Kimberly, I’m shocked they let you graduate. Was there a mix-up? A clerical error? Bribery?”

  “It’s Kimmy,” I seethed.

  But Glitter wasn’t listening. He leaned forward, smile sharp enough to warrant a safety warning. “Still…I’d strongly suggest publishing my story with all the drama and flair it deserves. I’d hate for our relationship to become…less than dazzling.” His gaze flicked toward the minion’s last known location. Another distant yelp echoed.

  I swallowed hard. “Duly noted.”

  A breeze swept across the terrace, carrying the scent of fruity cocktails and something vaguely like burning hair. The bartender—because of course there was a bartender—was polishing glasses at a tiny bar adorned with pink neon signage that read Sparkles & Spirits. A fresh drink, complete with an umbrella, had somehow appeared in front of me at some point.

  I ignored it. Mostly because I didn’t trust anything served in a glass modeled after a unicorn.

  Forcing my face back into something resembling professionalism, I tapped my pen against my notepad. “So…how exactly did you go from this—” I waved at the sheer glittering enormity of his existence, “—to building a criminal empire?”

  Glitter’s eyes lit up like I’d handed him a microphone at karaoke night. “Ah! Finally, a real question.” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I built my empire on cookie sales.”

  He let it hang there. Like he’d just revealed the cure for aging.

  I blinked. “...Cookies?”

  “Yes!” Glitter beamed, practically vibrating with pride. “The backbone of villainy, Kimberly.”

  “It’s Kimmy—wait.” I rubbed my temple. “You’re telling me you funded this—” I gestured at the chaise lounge, the rhinestone-clad minions, the unicorn-themed glitter cocktail—“with cookies?”

  “Not just any cookies.” Glitter placed a hand on his chest, looking deeply offended. “Artisanal cookies. Handcrafted. Infused with passion.”

  Somewhere in the distance, another POP echoed.

  I exhaled slowly. “This is going to be the most unbelievable article I’ve ever written.”

  Glitter’s grin widened. “You’re welcome.”