The door to Jason and Salim's house swung open with a force that suggested either a dramatic entrance or a small tornado had taken up acting.

It was Eric.

Face flushed, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it was chewing on resentment. He stomped in like a bootcamp sergeant whose laundry got stolen, slamming the door behind him with such theatrical finality that a ceramic plant on the foyer shelf quivered in fear.

Jason and Salim were at the dining table again, still drowning in Management Information Systems hell, surrounded by a sea of rubrics, caffeinated beverages, and soul erosion.

Jason looked up mid-scroll through a painfully complicated assignment about relational databases. "Whoa. You good?"

Eric pointed down the hallway like a man who had been personally insulted by air. "Where is she?"

Salim blinked. "Who—Rachel?"

"No, Beyoncé. Yes, Rachel!"

Jason sighed. "She's downstairs. In the confessional room."

Salim set his pen down. "She got back from the event like twenty minutes ago. You two didn't leave together?"

Eric scoffed. "She ditched me. Said she had to pee, then disappeared like Houdini with a glam squad."

Jason raised a brow. "You gonna yell at her in the confessional? You know they're rolling 24/7 down there."

"I want it on record," Eric snapped, already storming toward the basement stairs. "So when I finally snap and scream, the jury has context."

He stomped down the stairs two at a time, fists clenched, steam practically spewing from his ears.

Inside the confessional room, Rachel King sat cross-legged in the velvet chair like a flawless hurricane wrapped in a throw blanket, one hand dramatically holding a can of La Croix. The light bounced off her cheekbones. The drama was already brewing.

And then—

SLAM.

The door flew open.

Eric exploded in like a Category 5 tantrum. "WHAT. THE. HELL. WAS. THAT?"

Rachel didn't flinch. Didn't blink. She turned slowly, sipping her sparkling water like she was in a commercial for not giving a damn.

"What do you mean 'that'? You'll have to narrow it down, sweetie. I do a lot of things."

Eric took a step closer. "You left the baseball event. With no warning. In front of kids. Maria. That awkward kid who asked for kale chips. I had to run that booth by myself!"

Rachel tilted her head. "Okay, first of all, there were no kale chips. Second of all, I left because I was suffocating in the stench of your entitlement and lukewarm nacho cheese. You are the human version of a DMV line."

Eric growled. "You abandoned a charity event. That's next-level selfish."

Rachel set her sparkling water on the side table with poise. "Selfish? You sabotaged an entire vibe. You called it 'cheesy.' In front of Maria, the literal event sponsor. That was so tone-deaf, Eric, I almost called an audiologist."

Eric's face twitched. And then—he did it.

He smacked the sparkling water off the table.

The can hit the floor, rolled dramatically, and hissed with the last breath of carbonated dignity.

Rachel gasped. "You did not just assault my hydration."

Eric sneered. "That water? That unflavored, unsweetened mess? It's you. Pretentious, fizzy, and tastes like nothing but lies."

Rachel's jaw dropped. "Okay, Dick McGee. I can't deal with this man-hole energy anymore."

Eric's nostrils flared. "You keep calling me that like you think it's cute. But it's just bitchy. And guess what? You're a bitch."

Rachel stood, clutching her chest like she'd just been nominated for an Oscar. "Excuse me?!"

Eric leaned in. "Yeah. A bitch. You talk like a TikTok glossary with unresolved trauma. Every word out of your mouth sounds like it's sponsored by ego."

Rachel's eyes widened. "Security," she said calmly, pointing toward the door. "Get this human garbage disposal OUT of my sight before he starts flipping chairs again."

Seconds later, two security guards—planted upstairs by producers for exactly this kind of apocalyptic tension—rushed in.

Eric immediately stepped back, hands raised.

"Oh, so you're pulling the scared act now?"

Rachel fluttered her lashes. "Oh no, I'm not scared. I'm performing. And this performance is called 'I Survived a Man-Hole.'"

As security moved toward him, Rachel added with a bright smile, "Go work at Chili's, Eric. You've already mastered the emotional labor of slinging cold fries and hot disappointment."

Eric smirked as they backed him out the door. "Nice try, Heidi Montag."

Rachel gasped louder. "HOW DARE YOU. I am at least a Kristin Cavallari!"

The door slammed shut again. Peace, once more.

Rachel slowly sat back down in her chair. Composed. Regal. Petty.

She faced the camera, adjusted her blanket, and spoke with venom dipped in sugar.

"Eric King is not a man. He is a cunt of Mother Nature. A storm without purpose. A tsunami made of Axe body spray and unresolved rage."

She reached for another can of sparkling water from the side mini fridge. This one—flavored. Strawberry-mint. Victory.

She cracked it open.

"And like any natural disaster, the best you can do is evacuate, hydrate, and talk mad shit in a safe space."

Sip. Smile.

War was hell.
But this?
This was confessionally iconic.