first task?

Tammy took you on a brisk little tour, a kind of whirlwind orientation that left your head spinning. She opened doors and breezed through rooms like she was narrating an episode of MTV Cribs—except you couldn’t decide if it was parody or totally earnest.

The kitchen was all white marble and chrome, the kind of glossy surfaces you’d see in a lifestyle magazine. She pulled open drawers to show you where things were kept—wine keys, protein powders, takeout menus. The pantry was absurdly curated: rows of supplements, neatly stacked designer teas, and exactly four bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. She caught you staring.

“Yeah, that’s my guilty pleasure,” she said with a smirk, tossing her hair. “Don’t touch them unless I offer. That’s assistant rule number one.”

The living room was just as bold—oversized sectional, faux-fur throw blankets, walls hung with enormous canvases of abstract art. A giant ring light stood in one corner, tripod waiting beside it. “That’s my livestream setup. If I say we’re going live, you make sure the Wi-Fi isn’t lagging and my lip gloss isn’t smudged.” She said it like a joke, but there was an edge of seriousness there.

Then she led you down the hallway again to the "Randall Room."

“Alright! Time for your first task.”

She scanned the room theatrically before plucking a Blu-ray off the shelf and holding it out toward you. Fast Five. “Alphabetize my movie collection.”

You stared at her. “…You’re kidding.”

Her grin widened. “Nope. This is initiation, Timmy. I wanna see how good you are at taking direction. Besides—” she tipped her head, her layered blonde hair falling over one shoulder, “—wouldn’t it be hilarious if my glamorous assistant got caught organizing porn while I film a makeup tutorial in the other room?”

There it was again: Randall. That mischievous streak, that half-dare in her tone.