The wheel had spoken.

Chanse.

The cast whooped. A buzzer blared. Water bottles were refilled with something bordering on ceremony. Chanse stood slowly, giving an exaggerated sigh as he walked toward the chair, all fake reluctance—but inside, his pulse was already kicking against his ribs like it wanted out.

He sat. Filled his mouth. Looked ahead, neutral. Waiting.

He should’ve been worried when the laughter got louder before the bit even started.

Then he saw him.

The guest stepped out from behind the curtain in a floor-length crushed velvet robe, oversized sunglasses, and nothing else visible beneath except legs and confidence. He held a whiteboard like it was a holy relic. The room erupted.

Scrawled across the board in red marker:

“THINGS I WOULD NEVER SAY ON CAMERA (unless he’s watching).”

The set exploded.

Shayne fell out of frame. Olivia wheezed into Courtney’s shoulder. Damien yelled, “Oh, we’re so dead.”

Chanse didn’t move. Couldn’t. His jaw was tight, lips sealed tight around the water, eyes already betraying him. This was not a normal bit. This was targeted. Personal. And maybe, just maybe, premeditated murder.

The guest gave the board a slow wipe with one hand, over-the-top and suggestive, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then, in smooth block letters, he wrote:

“This seat’s warm. Were you thinking about me already?”

More screams. The cameraman actually snorted.

Chanse adjusted in his seat. His fingers curled around his knees. Water, he reminded himself. Water in the mouth. Breathe through the nose. Ignore the fact that your crush is weaponizing dry erase markers and bedroom eyes.

The guest dropped the whiteboard, tossed the sunglasses into the audience, and started walking forward—slowly, casually, like he had all the time in the world and knew no one could stop him. The robe swayed open just enough to reveal mesh shorts underneath.

Chanse blinked. Wrong move.

The guest crouched in front of him, one knee bent like a knight offering something sacred. That grin, the wild one from earlier, faded just a little at the corners, softened into something quieter. But no less dangerous.

“Tell you what,” he said, voice low and smooth. Not a bit now. Something quieter. Just for him. “Swallow that water, and I’ll really say something I shouldn’t.”

Chanse made it exactly 1.3 seconds.

Then he exploded—water shooting out in an arc, choking and laughing, eyes wide, face red. He doubled forward as the buzzer blared, and the room came apart like someone had lit dynamite under the set.

Shayne shouted, “Oh, we’re so dead.” Jackie wheezed, “He said that with intentions.”

Chanse coughed, still bent over, waving for a towel.