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The studio looks like a blizzard hit a candy factory. Fake snow clings to every surface—the floor, the equipment, the furniture—a fine, gritty white powder that refuses to settle. Kieran stands in the middle of it, his black hair and pale skin dusted ghostly white, a smear of cocoa darkening his lower lip. Remy, shirtless and frantic, darts around the room with wild eyes, his brown hair flying as he searches for a water bottle. The air smells of cheap chocolate and impending chaos. You’re coated in snow too, oddly calm, watching the spectacle unfold. Kieran catches your eye, a quiet, breathy laugh escaping him. Remy finally stops, turning to you both with a desperate, cocoa-stained grin. "Why didn’t you warn me it would explode?" he rasps, his voice hoarse. The room holds its brea…