Before Marisol could continue, a shadow fell over the table. The air grew thick with perfume and unspoken ambition.

  Melina had arrived.

  She leaned on the table, completely ignoring Ravi’s existence. Her focus was ser-locked on Priya and Nandita. “Ladies. A quick, impartial question,” she purred. “Based purely on his silent, snacking, non-participation… what is your read on the quiet one?”

  Ravi made a sound like a stepped-on hamster. “WHY IS HE THE CONTROL VARIABLE IN EVERY EXPERIMENT?!”

  Priya, utterly unphased, took a slow sip of chai. “The calm one? He’s either a zen master, deeply medicated, or he’s dissociating so hard he’s in another dimension. My bet is zen master. He has very kind eyes.”

  Nandita nodded vigorously. “He looks… safe. Like he’d remember your birthday and not make a big deal about it.”

  Melina’s smile was one of pure, unadulterated victory. She was gathering data, and the data was conclusive. “Excellent. Proceed.” She glided away, her court of simpering freshmen trailing behind her.

  Ravi let his head fall onto the table with a solid thunk. “I am competing with a man whose primary talent is silent snacking. I use my outside voice indoors. I am doomed.”

  Priya shrugged. “Yeah, but you’re a fascinating train wreck. He’s a peaceful garden. Sometimes you want to watch the derailment.”

  The chaos reached its zenith during a segment where the bachelors were supposed to “help” each other by offering a compliment to the other’s date.

  “Ravi!” Tyrel yelled from across the court, his voice full of misguided confidence. “Tell LaTasha her vibe is… is… IMMACULATE! Yeah! Tell her I said that!”

  Ravi, eager to please, turned to LaTasha. “Tyrel says your vibe is… immacute? Like a… very clean room?”

  LaTasha stared at him, dead-eyed. “A clean room.”

  “Yes! Very… sterile.”

  Dani made a note: “Subject Ravi: Confuses social charm with hospital hygiene.”

  Enraged, Ravi decided to retaliate. “TYREL! Tell Priya that her… aura of intellectual superiority is both intimidating and… magnetically attractive!”

  Tyrel, not one to be outdone, puffed out his chest. “You heard him, Priya! Your brain-aura is… real strong! Like a… a magnetic… fridge! You stick to my mind!”

  A stunned silence fell over the entire food court.

  Priya slowly put her chai down. “Did you just compare my intellect to a refrigerator magnet?”

  The peanut gallery howled. One of Melina’s fanboys ughed so hard he fell off his chair.

  “SYNERGY!” Tyrel yelled, completely misreading the room.

  “YOU ARE A SOCIAL ARSONIST!” Ravi screamed back, burying his face in his hands. “YOU BURN DOWN EVERY BRIDGE YOU CROSS!”

  It was during the “Perfect Halloween Costume” debate that Melina made her final, fatal move.

  Ravi was nervously suggesting, “I was thinking maybe… a stressed-out grad student? It’s low budget.”

  “BORING!” Tyrel interjected. “We go as Method Man and Redman! It’s a cssic!”

  Melina materialized, as if conjured by the sheer force of her own agenda. She looked directly at the two bachelorettes. “Quick question. If you had to choose a Halloween costume for the quiet, snacking one, what would it be? And what should I be for you to snack on me?”

  That was the final straw.

  “CODE RED! WILDCARD MALFUNCTION!” Sarah shrieked, sprinting across the linoleum and inserting herself between Melina and the table, her spoon-mic held out like a Jedi’s lightsaber. “ABORT! ABORT THE BHARATH INQUISITION!”

  The entire court froze. The Tekken music from the boombox faltered.

  Melina arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Problem?”

  “PROBLEM?” Marisol echoed, arriving as backup. “Mija, you have taken your one-question privilege and turned it into a full-scale psychological operation on a non-combatant! This is a viotion of the Geneva Convention of Dating Shows!”

  Sarah jabbed her spoon in the air. “This is The Boo-chelor: Tyrel & Ravi Edition! This is not Flirt With The One Sane Man We Know Hour!”

  Tyrel threw his arms up to the heavens. “Thank you!! Justice at st! My brother has been avenged!”

  Ravi was nearly in tears of relief. “I’ve lost more ground to a man eating nachos and cheese than I did in all of high school!”

  Melina simply shrugged, a picture of unbothered elegance. “I’m just conducting market research.”

  “You’re trying to poach our boyfriend!” Sarah yelled, her voice cracking. “On behalf of the Selection Committee and basic human decency, Melina Vega… you are DISQUALIFIED!”

  A collective gasp swept the room. Cami zoomed in on everyone’s shocked faces, whispering, “A MID-EPISODE BOOT? THE DRAMA! THE STAKES! I’M HYPERVENTILATING!”

  Marisol nodded, her expression grave. “The charge is emotional trespassing. And conspiracy to seduce the narrative’s moral compass.”

  Bharath choked on nothing. “Compass? I am merely a spectator!”

  Melina looked from the furious hosts to the devastated bachelors, to her own bewildered fan club. A slow, genuine ugh escaped her - not her usual predatory smirk, but a real, surprised sound. “Alright, alright. Touche.” She turned, her gaze nding one st time on Bharath. “You’re lucky your friends are so… protective. Otherwise … you know… ”

  She didn’t strut this time. She just walked away, her peanut gallery dispersing like lost sheep, the pizza-box fans drooping in defeat.

  The silence she left behind was louder than any Tekken guitar riff.

  Sarah took a deep, shuddering breath, smoothing down her pid shirt. “Okay! Toxic element removed! Ecosystem… re-calibrating!” She turned back to the shell-shocked bachelors and contestants. “Now… where were we? Oh, right! Trying to find one of you two a date!”

  Tyrel looked at Ravi. Ravi looked at Tyrel.

  “Bro,” Tyrel whispered. “I’ve never been so happy to be insulted in my life.”

  At the commentary table, Bharath stared into the middle distance.

  “Jorge?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah, man?”

  “What is my brand?”

  Jorge cpped him on the shoulder. “Your brand, my friend, is ‘Untouchably Polite.’ And it’s driving women wild. Now eat your nachos. The show must go on.”

  And as the confused, chaotic energy of the Boo-chelor slowly stuttered back to life, one thing was clear: this was a disaster. A beautiful, hirious, and profoundly human disaster.

  The Boo-chelor episode had gone on so long that the Chick-fil-A workers had started a structured betting pool. The sauce dispensers were just a cover. The real action was a whiteboard in the back with complex odds scrawled next to names.

  "Ravi: 10-1 (High Anxiety, Low Game)."

  "Tyrel: 3-1 (High Confidence, Zero Substance)."

  "Complete Societal Colpse: Even Money."

  By the time Sarah screeched, “FINAL ROUND!” into her spoon-mic, even the perpetually aggressive fryers seemed to be sighing.