...completely unscathed, their hair still perfectly styled amidst the absolute wreckage of city hall logistics and romantic destiny. As the glitter settled over Times Square, the physical fog of voter anxiety began to condense into tiny, harmless ice cubes, clinking perfectly into the boiling Hudson River to cool it down. The Statue of Liberty, sensing the climax of the crisis, swiveled her giant torch and shot a massive, triple-swirl stream of blue raspberry soft-serve directly over the crowd, instantly neutralizing the zombie insanity with pure, unadulterated sugar. Mrs. Lips looked at The Handsome Man, her magníficient pout adjusting to a flawless, triumphant smile that cast a warm, cinematic glow over the entire tri-state area. "You timed that drop perfectly," she purred, her voice now appearing as sparkling golden subtitles in the air between them. "But what about the remaining twelve percent of the data?" The Handsome Man didn't answer with words. Instead, he simply adjusted his torn cuffs, flashed a smile so radiant it automatically fixed the broken billboard down the street, and looked up at the sky. The burning poll pamphlets had stopped falling, replaced instead by a gentle, retrocausal drizzle of pristine, unwritten ledger sheets—waiting for the next shift in the timeline.

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