Classified under: Alleged Events – Questionable Accuracy
Lev watched Kara vanish into the stairwell. Meanwhile, Teorin—her very suspicious, possibly-too-handsome new friend—was explaining a dramatic alleyway make-out session that had somehow saved their lives. Classic. Predictable. Smug.
“We were cornered,” Teorin said, dramatically unzipping his jacket for no reason. “They almost found us. But Kara told me to kiss her, and I did. Because I follow instructions with passion.”
Lev was scandalized. Not just by the kiss, but by the audacity to be good at it.
“Just like that?” Lev said, clutching his pearls. (Editor’s Note: Lev was not actually wearing pearls. We just feel he deserves them.)
Teorin swore it wasn’t premeditated, which made it worse, somehow. Spontaneous alleyway kissing? In this economy?
Lev stared at Teorin in a way that suggests intense internal debate, or possibly the mental calculation of whether throwing someone off a roof would be justified under maritime law.
Teorin didn’t move. This was immediately suspicious.
Lev stepped back. This is interpreted as a power reset.
He ran a hand through his hair, which the Archive reads as either:
A) frustration,
B) restraint, or
C) a silent vow to haunt Teorin forever if anything happens to Kara.
Lev appeared to speak at length. Based on mouth shape alone, the Archive concludes he says something like:
“I am emotionally vibrating at a frequency usually reserved for warning sirens.”
Teorin nodded. This nod is calm. This is also suspicious.
Teorin responded with what seems to be a carefully constructed speech acknowledging Lev’s concerns, his own sudden appearance, and the general existence of trust as a concept.
Lev nodded back. This nod is sharp. Defensive. Possibly sarcastic.
Teorin extended a hand. This is not a handshake. This is a test.
Lev hesitated. This hesitation is brief, but meaningful. It suggests:
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
- internal conflict,
- poor impulse control,
- and a deep, personal weakness for peace offerings.
They awkwardly shook hands in a mutual agreement of “emotional ceasefire” (Lev’s fingers were limp, Teorin’s were aggressively sincere), and tried not to make eye contact for twelve whole seconds.
Lev visibly relaxed for exactly half a second before remembering himself and correcting his posture like a man who has accidentally revealed too much about his emotional operating system.
Then silence.
“So… we just wait now?” Lev asked.
“Yeah,” Teorin said, while petting his carabiner like it was a nervous cat.
Suddenly: a scream. Not a casual one. A dramatic, plot-forwarding one.
They ran.
Well, Teorin ran. Lev sprinted like a dramatic ballet soloist in a thunderstorm, cape billowing. (Note: still no cape, but we’re pushing for it.)
In the hallway, Lev was tackled. Physically. Competently. By Teorin. Lev was far too aware of this.
“What was that for?!” Lev yelled.
“Saving your life,” Teorin said, whispering too close to his ear.
Lev hated how competent it felt. He decided to remain angry on principle.
Pulser blasts flew. Walls vibrated. The villain was revealed to be a Heatsinger Ninja With Perfect Eyeliner. Possibly hired. Possibly just vibing. The Archive refuses to speculate.
Lev and Teorin locked eyes.
This look lasted approximately one (1) second, which the Archive recognizes as the universal duration for:
- tactical planning,
- emotional reconciliation, or
- deciding who is about to do something extremely stupid.
No words were exchanged. None were needed.
Lev jerked his head toward the stairs. Teorin grimaced and nodded, like a man accepting a doomed side quest.
The Archive concludes they agreed on the following: Teorin would handle whatever that was. Lev would handle the other one. This plan is flawless because it has no details.
Lev launched himself up the stairwell after the redhead two steps at a time, cape flaring, grip tight on the railing like it had personally offended him. His footwork was precise, frantic, and tragically theatrical.
Lev burst onto the roof and was immediately rewarded for his enthusiasm with glowing projectiles and regret.
A throwing star hissed past him. Another embedded itself nearby. The Archive notes that Lev chooses to interpret this as discouraging feedback, not a deterrent.
Lev pivoted, scanning for options. Then remembered that paper hates fire.
He moved for the backpack with sudden conviction, vaulting the railing in a maneuver that is both athletic and deeply unnecessary.
Something clipped his arm. Now Lev was bleeding (mildly), stylishly dodging throwing stars, and internally ranking which rooftop deaths would make the best headlines.
“If I die,” he thought, “someone tell Kara I want my memorial cupcakes to be lemon, not chocolate. Important.”
Eventually, Lev snatched the sacred backpack full of plot-critical pages and fled in stylish, perfectly-timed spirals. “Come on,” he whispered to the backpack. “Give me something. A miracle. A flamethrower. A Coupon. Or maybe a witty comeback.”
There was none.
But what there was, was a plan.
He read Kara’s notes (in their shared sibling shorthand, which is basically glittery chicken scratch), and grinned.
“This is it,” he thought. “This is the plan. This is how I live.”
(Archivist Note: The plan involved bait, stealth, a rogue telescope, and possibly interpretive dance.)
The rest remains classified. But the legend of Lev “I Did Not Start This Rooftop Drama” Tanel lives on.
For now.