A warm breeze stirred across the rooftop terrace, carrying hints of citrus and hibiscus from the garden planters lining the railing. The rare pink ivory wood gleamed faintly beneath the terrace lights, polished to perfection—because, of course, Glitter wouldn’t settle for anything less. At the far end of the terrace, a sleek bar of the same rare wood stretched beneath twinkling fairy lights. The bartender, clad head to toe in a shimmering suit that reflected the lights like a walking disco ball, shook a pair of cocktail shakers with rhythmic flair.

  I shifted awkwardly on the velvet lounge chair, my pen hovering above my notepad. Across from me, Glitter had draped himself across the arms of his chaise lounge, his purple cape catching the moonlight every time he moved. In one hand, he swirled a neon pink cocktail garnished with an orange slice and a tiny paper umbrella.

  “You're joking, right?” I said, struggling to keep my voice level. “You funded your career in villainy through Girl Scout cookie sales?”

  “Trinity Girl Scouts,” he corrected with a raised finger, as if addressing a classroom. “And let’s not downplay the entrepreneurial brilliance of it all. Most villains rely on mundane methods—bank robberies, extortion, trust funds. I, however, turned our country’s love for children and cookies into a thriving empire. Sweet yet sinister. Delicious yet devious.”

  Before I could respond, the bartender appeared beside me and set down a drink—a pastel blue beverage crowned with a pineapple wedge and a glitter-dusted umbrella. I eyed it suspiciously, half-expecting it to contain laxatives.

  “Also,” I pressed on, “you just described the Strawberry Trots laxatives. Were you responsible for the Trinity Scouts lawsuits in ‘21?”

  Glitter leaned back with a smug smile, crossing his arms. “Ah, yes. A minor hiccup on the road to greatness. Apparently, some consumers felt ‘misled’ when my limited-edition Strawberry Thumbprint cookies delivered more than just flavor. But let’s be honest—the elderly loved them! Sales tripled in retirement communities. I merely provided a service to an underserved demographic.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Service?” I echoed, incredulous.

  “I’m a humanitarian at heart,” he said, placing a hand over his chest with exaggerated sincerity.

  I blinked at him. “You just admitted to tricking people into eating laxatives.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Tricked? No, no. I simply provided an unexpected bonus. And the demand became so overwhelming that the Trinity Scouts approached me—I repeat, me—for an exclusive distribution partnership.”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. “The Girl Scouts approached you?”

  Glitter nodded, smug. “Now they receive a modest percentage of every box sold. It’s a win-win! The elderly get their...uh, ‘daily motivation,’ and the Scouts secure funding for their camping trips.” He took a triumphant sip of his drink before gesturing broadly. “Who says capitalism can’t be compassionate?”

  I stared at him, trying to process this information. My pen hovered above my notepad, struggling to capture the sheer absurdity of this man’s logic.

  “So you’ve been funding your criminal empire with—”

  “Laxatives, yes,” he cut in, as if discussing nothing more controversial than a grocery list. “Do you have any idea how expensive custom sequined capes are? Not to mention specialized glitter, confetti drones, and monogrammed smoke machines. Villainy isn’t cheap, you know.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but hesitated, unsure if any response could possibly make sense in this context. Instead, I took a cautious sip of my drink. It was delicious—and, so far, not causing any suspicious stomach gurgles.

  “Alright,” I managed, clearing my throat. “Then what about your first supervillain heist? How does that tie into your cookie-funded empire?”

  Glitter’s eyes lit up with unmistakable pride as he adjusted his cape. “Ah, my first glorious foray into villainy…None of it would’ve been possible without those cookies. The profits funded everything—the prototype atomic glitter bomb, my original costume (sequins hand-stitched by yours truly), and, of course, the getaway vehicle. Pink convertible. Glitter-frosted rims. It was magnificent.”

  “And what exactly did you steal?” I asked, bracing myself.

  Glitter’s grin widened. “Oh, but that’s a story for the next chapter, my dear Kimmy.”

  With that, he clinked his glass against mine and took a sip, the city lights behind him shimmering like a stage backdrop. His cape billowed slightly in the breeze, as if even the wind acknowledged the presence of a man who dared to conquer both capitalism and criminality…one glitter-covered scheme at a time.