"Well, fuck."

  Everyone looked at Brenda in surprise, not used to hearing the woman cuss. The assessment hung in the stale stairwell air between Kevin, Dave, Brenda, and Gary. Below them, the sounds of the approaching pasta-based nightmare – the scraping, the clinking, the wet bubbling moans – were getting undeniably closer. Above them, the furious pounding of the Butcherino had escalated into a splintering, cracking sound that suggested the Floor 1 door wouldn't hold much longer.

  Trapped. Utterly, definitively fucked.

  Kevin glanced at his terrified companions. Brenda looked like she was about five seconds from dissolving into a puddle of pure panic. Gary was slumped against the wall, pale and sweating, his minor injuries suddenly seeming like a death sentence if they couldn't move. Dave still held the fire extinguisher, but his bravado had evaporated, leaving behind the raw fear of a middle manager facing something far worse than a bad quarterly review.

  And Kevin? He had 7 Clout, a broken keyboard, some probably useless espresso beans, and the newfound knowledge that yelling "Gyatt" could weaponize asses. It wasn't exactly a winning hand.

  "Right," Kevin said, his throat dry. His mind raced, cycling through terrible options. Fight the pasta monsters? Fight the Butcherino? Try to somehow phase through the wall? The System hadn't offered a 'Noclip' scroll yet.

  The splintering sound from above intensified. A chunk of wood flew off the door frame inside the stairwell.

  "It's coming through!" Dave yelled, taking an involuntary step down the stairs, towards the monsters.

  The scraping from below was right at the bottom of their current flight of stairs now. Peering over the railing, Kevin could just make out the top of the Spaghetti Servitor's lurching, dripping form as it began its ascent towards their landing. Its meatball eyes pulsed dimly in the gloom.

  Kevin ignored the atrocious suggestion. They needed a plan, now. His eyes fell on the heavy red door leading back out to the lobby – the lobby currently occupied by killer carbs. But maybe... maybe they weren't looking this way?

  "The lobby," Kevin hissed. "We make a break for it. Forget the stairs, forget the Butcherino. We go back through the lobby door."

  "Into ?" Brenda squeaked, gesturing wildly downwards. "With the... the spaghetti thing?"

  "It's slow!" Kevin argued, glancing down as the Servitor laboriously dragged itself onto the first step of their flight. "The System said the others are distracted. If we move fast, maybe we can get past them. Find that security office, or another exit, !"

  CRACK!

  "No time!" Kevin yelled. "Dave, door! Gary, lean on me! Brenda, try not to scream unless you think it'll actually help!"

  Dave, spurred by the imminent arrival of the cleaver-wielding psycho, yanked open the lobby door again. Kevin practically dragged Gary through it, Brenda stumbling after them. They spilled back out into the cavernous, orange-lit lobby.

  The scene hadn't improved. The Spaghetti Servitor, momentarily confused by their sudden change of direction, paused its stairwell ascent. The Rigatoni Brute was indeed comically trying to shove its bulky, pasta-shell frame through the building's main revolving door, getting predictably stuck. The Angel Hair Skirmisher zipped around it nervously, occasionally taking swipes at the glass with flimsy pasta claws.

  Their luck held for about three seconds.

  The Spaghetti Servitor, abandoning the stairs, turned its dripping mass towards them, letting out a low, gurgling moan as it began to ooze across the marble floor, leaving a trail of what looked horrifyingly like marinara sauce. This slick trail immediately began to spread outwards.

  "Don't step in the sauce!" Kevin yelled, pulling Gary further into the lobby, skirting around the edge of the expanding red slick.

  The Rigatoni Brute, hearing the commotion, finally gave up on the revolving door with an angry grunt, ripped a decorative potted palm tree (roots and all) out of its ceramic pot, and hefted it like a makeshift club. It lumbered towards them, its hollow pasta armor clattering.

  "Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me," Dave muttered, raising the extinguisher again, though he clearly knew it was useless against this one too.

  They needed to cross the lobby. Kevin spotted a sign near the far end: SECURITY. A solid-looking door beneath it. It was their only hope. But between them and it were two angry pasta constructs, an expanding marinara swamp, and whatever the Angel Hair thing decided to do. Oh, and the Butcherino was probably about to break through the stairwell door behind them any second.

  Kevin took a deep breath. Time for more weaponized stupidity. He focused on the Rigatoni Brute lumbering towards them. It was big, bulky... maybe susceptible to a sudden change in momentum? He still had the taste of "Gyatt" – both metaphorical and slightly ozone-like – in his mouth.

  "Brenda!" Kevin shouted. "Remember the time you presented the wrong quarterly report to the VP? Feel that! Now!" He didn't know if it would work, but maybe her High Cringe Sensitivity could be weaponized passively?

  He then focused, pictured the most awkward, embarrassing fall possible, and yelled, "CRINGE!

  The Rigatoni Brute, mid-lumber, suddenly faltered. It glanced down at its palm tree club as if unsure it was holding it correctly. Its clattering steps became hesitant. It tried to adjust its grip, fumbled, and nearly dropped the tree. It looked, for all the world, like a giant pasta golem experiencing stage fright.

  Clout: 8/15.

  "Move, move!" Kevin urged, dragging Gary towards the Security door, skirting the Marinara Mire. Dave followed, occasionally spraying useless puffs of foam towards the confused Brute. Brenda scrambled behind them.

  The Angel Hair Skirmisher, seeing them bypass its larger companion, suddenly zipped forward. It moved in a blur of thin pasta strands, weaving through the lobby debris. It wasn't aiming for Kevin, but for Brenda at the rear.

  "Brenda, look out!" Dave yelled.

  Kevin spun around. No time for finesse. He saw the speeding pasta-blur, pictured hitting a baseball, and roared, "YEET!

  The keyboard tumbled end over end, amplified slightly by the "Yeet" effect. It wasn't fast, it wasn't graceful, but by sheer dumb luck, it intercepted the Angel Hair Skirmisher mid-zip. The impact sent the light pasta construct tumbling into a heap of dry, snapping strands, momentarily stunned and tangled in its own limbs.

  They were almost at the Security door. Kevin risked a glance back. The Spaghetti Servitor was still oozing slowly across the floor. The Rigatoni Brute had shaken off its awkwardness and was hefting the palm tree again. The Angel Hair Skirmisher was untangling itself. And worst of all, the stairwell door finally burst open with a scream of tortured metal, revealing the furious, cleaver-wielding Butcherino silhouetted in the doorway. Its greasy yellow eyes fixed on them instantly.

  "Security door! Now!" Kevin slammed his shoulder against the indicated door. Locked. Of course, it was fucking locked.

  "Stand back!" Dave yelled, shoving Kevin aside and aiming the fire extinguisher nozzle right at the lock mechanism. "If it worked on the coffee thing..." He unleashed a sustained blast.

  The lock clicked, sputtered, and then seemed to seize up completely, coated in freezing white powder.

  Kevin stared at the frosted, utterly immobile lock, then back at the Butcherino starting to charge across the lobby, the Rigatoni Brute raising its palm tree, and the Spaghetti Servitor oozing closer.

  "Dave, you quadruple-fucking idiot." Kevin's voice was flat, devoid of heat, which somehow made it worse. The sheer, weapons-grade incompetence radiating from Dave was almost a physical force.

  Dave stammered, "I-it froze the other one! I thought—"

  "You thought? With what brain cells, Dave? The ones you left in your marketing seminar?" Kevin snapped, his own panic flaring into white-hot anger.

  There was no time for recriminations. The Rigatoni Brute, apparently unfazed by Dave's critical failure in applied cryo-lockpicking, let out a sound like rocks tumbling down a well and swung its Potted Palm Club in a wide, brutal arc aimed right at them. Simultaneously, the Butcherino, recovering from its face-plant with horrifying speed, bellowed and resumed its charge, cleaver raised high, its eyes burning with greasy, homicidal rage. The Spaghetti Servitor continued its slow, inexorable ooze, the Marinara Mire creeping closer to their shoes. Even the Angel Hair Skirmisher was back on its... tendrils?... twitching aggressively nearby.

  Converging vectors of death. One meaty, one starchy, one saucy. Welcome to the food pyramid from hell.

  Kevin had five Clout left. Five fucking points of meme energy standing between them and becoming Calamity Sector Calzones. He didn't have time to hope Brenda's terror would spontaneously generate more fuel for his bullshit magic. He had one shot with the dumbest spell in his arsenal.

  He focused on the charging Butcherino – the fastest, most immediately lethal threat. He pictured its impossible, gravity-defying ass from before, amplified the sheer wrongness of it, and screamed the word like a final, desperate prayer to the gods of brainrot.

  "GYATT!

  For the second time in as many minutes, the Butcherino's charge was catastrophically interrupted by its own suddenly weaponized derrière. The effect seemed even more pronounced this time – maybe repeated casting had a cumulative effect, or maybe the System just enjoyed the show. Its ass swelled to the size of a small car, the apron ripping with a pathetic , and the sheer localized gravity yanked the creature downwards with enough force to crack the marble floor tiles upon impact. CRACK-THUD-CLAP!

  Clout: 0/15

  And the victory was short-lived. Because while the Butcherino was momentarily out of commission, the Rigatoni Brute's attack hadn't stopped. The Potted Palm Club, swung with alarming force, was whistling through the air right towards Gary, who was too slow and injured to dodge effectively.

  "NO!" Dave yelled, finally doing something arguably useful, if suicidal. He shoved Gary partially aside and interposed himself, raising the dented fire extinguisher like a shield.

  The palm tree hit the extinguisher with a CRUNCH

  Brenda shrieked, a raw, piercing sound of pure terror that actually made Kevin's ears ring.

  Brenda's [Fear Scream] generated +2 Ambient Clout!

  Clout: 2/15

  The Rigatoni Brute discarded the mangled palm tree, apparently satisfied, and turned its attention towards Kevin and Brenda, the only ones still standing near the hopelessly locked Security door. Behind it, the Spaghetti Servitor oozed closer, its Marinara Mire starting to lick at Kevin's shoes. The Angel Hair Skirmisher zipped forward again, sensing weakness. And further back, with a sound like tearing fabric and popping cartilage, the Butcherino was somehow managing to , its ridiculously proportioned backside wobbling precariously as its yellow eyes fixed on Kevin with renewed, incandescent hatred.

  This was it. No more spells, no working weapons, two colleagues down, nowhere to run, and surrounded by pissed-off Italian food stereotypes.

  Kevin looked at the frosted, useless lock Dave had created. Then at the approaching monsters. Then at the broken keyboard lying uselessly nearby.

  A single, hysterical giggle escaped his lips. It was all just so fucking stupid. He was going to die here, killed by spaghetti or a psychopathic butcher with a gravitational ass, all because the universe decided Earth's primary cultural export was brainrot.

  He met the gaze of the lumbering Rigatoni Brute. Fuck it. If he was going down, he was going down swinging. Or... yelling pointlessly. He took his remaining 2 Clout.

  "Hey, pasta-for-brains!" Kevin yelled, pointing directly at the Brute.

  "BRUH!

  The Rigatoni Brute tilted its hollow head, the "Bruh!" echoing slightly inside its pasta shell. It paused for maybe half a second, the equivalent of a particularly slow human blinking. Then it resumed its lumbering advance, utterly unimpressed.

  Minor Stun/Distraction (Tier F)

  The emphasis was definitely on . Fucking useless.

  The Angel Hair Skirmisher didn't even hesitate. Seeing Kevin distracted and out of Clout, it zipped past the confused Brute and launched itself at Brenda with a rustle of dry pasta strands, aiming its needle-sharp limbs at her face.

  Brenda screamed again, flinching back against the frozen security door, throwing her arms up protectively. Kevin, empty-handed and Clout-less, could only watch in horror.

  Behind them, the Spaghetti Servitor’s Marinara Mire had reached their feet, thick and viscous, sucking at their shoes like edible quicksand. Movement suddenly felt sluggish, heavy. And further back, the Butcherino, ass still wobbling like a cursed Jell-O mold, had retrieved its cleaver and was advancing with slow, murderous determination, its yellow eyes promising inventive ways to die involving meat hooks.

  Cornered. Outnumbered. Out of magic. Two colleagues bleeding out or already dead. Facing death by pasta, psycho butcher, or possibly just slipping in the gore and cracking their skulls open. Kevin felt a cold certainty settle in his gut. This was the end. Game over, insert coin... except the coin was probably obsolete currency too.

  Brenda’s scream hitched as the Angel Hair Skirmisher leaped. The Rigatoni Brute raised its fist for a finishing blow. The Butcherino took another wobbling step forward.

  Then, the world outside the lobby windows erupted.

  With a sound like God dropping a skyscraper made of shattering glass, something impossibly huge and fast smashed through the reinforced street-level windows. It wasn't a bus, or a truck, or anything remotely normal. It looked, bizarrely, horrifyingly, like the front third of a cartoonishly aggressive-looking steam locomotive, painted garish red and black, with way too many wheels and a cowcatcher that seemed designed for eviscerating pedestrians rather than livestock.

  CRASH! SMAAAAASH!

  The entity – because it definitely wasn't just a vehicle – plowed into the lobby, sending shards of glass, marble fragments, and overturned furniture flying. It hit the Rigatoni Brute dead center. The pasta golem didn't stand a chance. It simply disintegrated on impact, exploding into a cloud of dry pasta fragments and pulverized palm tree.

  The force of the impact carried the locomotive-thing further into the lobby, its unseen wheels screeching on the marble floor despite clearly not being attached to any tracks. It slammed to a halt maybe twenty feet from Kevin and Brenda, its single, enormous headlight fixing them with a baleful, white glare.

  A distorted, cheerful voice suddenly blared from an unseen speaker on the locomotive, loud enough to make Kevin’s teeth rattle:

  "I LIKE TRAINS!"

  Then, just as abruptly as it arrived, the locomotive’s headlight dimmed, and it… vanished. Poof. Gone. Leaving behind only the wreckage, the cloud of pasta dust settling, and a stunned silence broken by the Butcherino's confused grunt and the Spaghetti Servitor's continued bubbling moan.

  Kevin stared at the space where the murder train had been, then at the obliterated remains of the Rigatoni Brute, then back at the remaining monsters. The Angel Hair Skirmisher had been thrown back by the shockwave, landing in the Marinara Mire where it struggled feebly. The Spaghetti Servitor seemed confused by the sudden disappearance of its companion. The Butcherino, however, merely adjusted its grip on its cleaver, seemingly unfazed by the random, physics-defying train attack, its attention still locked on Kevin. Apparently, giant asses and murder trains were just part of the job description now.

  "What... the everlasting... FUCK... was that?" Brenda whispered, her voice choked with disbelief and residual terror.

  "System content generation?" Kevin guessed numbly, remembering the World Announcement's ominous line about being entertaining. Maybe their hopeless situation wasn't "peak content," so the System just dropped a literal meme train on them? The thought was chilling.

  The Butcherino started forward again. But the brief, insane respite had given Kevin an idea. A terrible, desperate idea.

  He looked at Dave's motionless form near the wall. Then at Gary, groaning nearby. Then at the Butcherino, its ass still comically large but its murderous intent clear. Then at the frozen, useless Security door lock.

  He grabbed Brenda's arm. "The espresso beans," he hissed urgently. "In my pocket. Get them out!"

  Brenda fumbled, her hands shaking, pulling out the small burlap sack.

  "Eat one," Kevin ordered. "Now!"

  "What? Why?"

  "Dexterity buff! Makes you faster! Just do it!"

  Brenda hesitated, then shoved a single, dark bean into her mouth, chewing frantically. Her eyes widened almost immediately. "Whoa! Jitters..."

  "Good!" Kevin said. He pointed towards the still-open stairwell door, where the Butcherino had entered. "When I say go, you run. Back up the stairs. Don't stop, don't look back. Get as high as you can."

  "What about you? What about Dave and Gary?"

  "Just GO!" Kevin yelled, turning back to face the Butcherino, which was now only about thirty feet away. He took a deep breath. No Clout, no weapon, but maybe, just maybe, he could buy her a few seconds. He stepped forward, deliberately placing himself between the monster and Brenda.

  He met the Butcherino’s greasy, hate-filled eyes. "Hey, fatass!" he yelled, hoping insults might generate… something. Anything. "Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!"

  The Butcherino paused, head tilted. It seemed more confused by the rapid-fire, nonsensical insults than angered.

  "NOW, BRENDA! GO!" Kevin screamed.

  Brenda, fueled by fear and magical caffeine, bolted for the stairwell door like a startled gazelle, surprisingly fast despite the encroaching Marinara Mire near the entrance.

  The Butcherino roared, realizing it was being distracted, and raised its cleaver, ignoring Kevin for the moment and starting towards the fleeing Brenda.

  Kevin reacted on pure instinct. He ran the Butcherino, shouting the only word he could think of that might have an impact, even without Clout.

  "GYATT!

  Nothing happened, of course. No Clout, no spell. But the itself, the memory of the indignity, seemed to trigger something in the Butcherino. It flinched, its massive, gravitationally-significant rear wobbling violently, momentarily disrupting its balance and slowing its pursuit of Brenda by a crucial half-second.

  It was enough. Brenda scrambled through the stairwell door just as the Butcherino reached it, slamming it shut again behind her. The monster roared in frustration and slammed its cleaver into the already damaged wood, embedding it deep.

  Kevin skidded to a halt a few feet away, breathing heavily. He'd saved Brenda. Probably. For now.

  But now he was alone. Trapped in the lobby with a furious, temporarily disarmed Butcherino, an oozing Spaghetti Servitor, a struggling Angel Hair Skirmisher, and two downed colleagues.

  The Butcherino wrenched its cleaver free from the door with a shriek of tearing wood and turned its full, undivided, wobbling-ass attention back to Kevin.

  Its greasy yellow eyes promised pain. Lots and lots of pain. Al dente.