The clouds had been dramatic since noon, and now, the Midwest was doing what the Midwest did best—absolutely losing its meteorological mind.

Rain hammered the SUV windshield like it had a personal grudge against visibility. The sky had gone from overcast to "Oh, cool, so God's making soup now." Wind howled. Tree limbs bent like they were auditioning for a disaster movie.

Rachel King sat in the backseat of the producers' black SUV, arms folded, sunglasses on despite the gloomy gray skies. She watched as the rain whipped sideways across the flat Indiana road like it was trying to ruin her blowout.

"Wow," she muttered to herself, watching a trash can fly down the street like a tumbleweed of despair. "I wasn't being metaphorical. Eric really is a walking derecho."

The SUV turned onto Jason and Salim's street just as thunder cracked so loudly it felt like the sky had thrown a tantrum.

"Welcome to the Midwest," said the producer in the front seat as if the universe hadn't just threatened everyone's bone structure.

Rachel ignored him, clutching her tote bag like a war relic. As the car stopped, she flung the door open with the urgency of someone fleeing a country, then sprinted through the rain like a soaked socialite in a low-budget music video. She practically tackled the doorbell.

Moments later, Jason opened the front door, barefoot, holding a mug, and looking confused. "Rachel? You're home early—again."

Rachel stood on the porch, soaked but unbothered, mascara perfectly intact because she only used waterproof, obviously.

She held up a finger. "Three hints. Storm. Sweat. Sensor tags."

Jason stepped aside. "That bad?"

Rachel marched inside, kicked off her soaked sneakers, and dramatically unzipped her Abercrombie volunteer jacket like she was shedding trauma. "Jason," she said, dragging her voice like a monologue, "do you remember what happens when you put a tactical genius, a passive-aggressive ex-husband, a retail playlist, and Made You Look in the same confined space?"

Jason blinked. "You go viral on TikTok?"

"You go to HELL, Jason. Hell."

He followed her into the kitchen, still nursing his half-warm coffee. "Wait—did you just say Made You Look?"

Rachel slammed her purse on the counter. "Abercrombie's playlist. That song played three times in under two hours. I counted. I started to develop tics."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Okay but what really happened? You don't leave a scene unless it's actively burning."

Rachel threw her arms up. "Fine! Eric insulted Carina—the manager. Said she looked like a bottle service girl on break. She was literally wearing a blazer. He got mad when I liked folding shirts. Said I was 'romanticizing clothing labor.' He hates the clothes. Then I knocked over his shipment box accidentally-on-purpose because I needed a 30-minute mental health break."

Jason looked at her, equal parts shocked and impressed. "So you dipped, and left Eric alone in a mall store during a derecho?"

Before she could answer, Salim came down the stairs in nothing but a towel and a look of curiosity. "Why is there a small tornado outside, and why is Rachel yelling about Meghan Trainor?"

Jason pointed. "She said the song 'Made You Look' was playing on repeat in the store and caused a psychological event."

Salim blinked. "Who's Meghan Trainor?"

Without missing a beat, Rachel sang, "I could have my Gucci on—"

Jason slapped the air. "Don't you DARE."

Salim visibly flinched. "Turn that off, Rachel."

"I hate it too!" Rachel protested. "I'm just reporting the trauma! And what even is doo-wop? What decade is she channeling? 1957? Are we suddenly folding jeans in a sock hop?!"

Salim poured himself water, muttering, "Who greenlights these songs?"

Jason shook his head. "Okay, wait—what really happened at the outlet? Like… start to finish."

Rachel took a deep breath, then rattled it off with flawless dramatic cadence.

"Eric insulted the manager. I defended her. He insulted the clothes. I said they were stitched with heartbreak. Meghan Trainor started playing. I had a rage blackout. Knocked his shipment box over. Storm hit. I called for evac. And now I'm here. Wet, annoyed, and emotionally blistered."

Salim whistled. "And Eric's still at the outlet?"

Rachel grabbed another flavored sparkling water from the fridge—this one labeled Blood Orange Drama—and popped the tab with flourish. "If the wind doesn't carry him into the next county, I hope his mood does."

She marched down the stairs, her flip-flops slapping dramatically like thunderclaps.

In the confessional room, the camera was already rolling.

Rachel sat, adjusted her shirt, took a long sip, and leaned into frame with the kind of serenity that only comes after spiritually curb-stomping someone with sarcasm.

"So. It happened again. The producers keep sending me to these volunteer events, like it's therapy. But you know what's not therapeutic? Tagging Abercrombie crop tops next to the human embodiment of bad vibes and wet cardboard."

She took another sip.

"And Meghan Trainor. Let's talk about that. If I ever hear the words 'Made you look' one more time, I will look—for a shovel."

She paused. Lightning flickered outside the basement window. She smiled.

"I told the producers Eric was a walking derecho. And look at that—Midwest Karma came through."

She leaned closer.

"I hope he's stuck on the salesfloor with a broken tag gun, two shrieking tweens asking for bralettes, and Made You Look playing on repeat."

Another sip.

"I'm not saying I want him to be swallowed by the storm. I'm just saying—if Mother Nature's doing house calls today, she can start with him."

The light blinked red.

Recording saved.

Rachel kicked her feet up, popped another sip of her sparkling water, and whispered:

"Tag that, bitch."