In the luminous sprawl of Funky Town—where disco balls spun over dumpling diners and synth beats oozed from alleyway speakers—Ah-Wan reunited with his crew. Monicarella, a razor-witted matcha latte in a rhinestone tracksuit and holographic shades, had just crushed a laser karaoke battle two blocks down. Wilba, a brooding oolong with motor oil in his steam and a wrench forever lodged in his lid, arrived next, still smelling of hoverboard grease. Last came Elijah, a bubbling espresso shot in the form of a glass bong, gliding out from a smoke-filled arcade with a trail of vapor and a grin full of schemes.
