Ben’s apartment was a windswept stronghold, a barren expanse where every object had been stripped of its modern context and reimagined through his warrior’s lens. The obnoxious Sorcerous Lanterns buzzed overhead, their cold light pooling on the Concrete Floors of Echoing Solitude. The Folding Chair of Flimsy Steel stood at attention in the center of the room, its sagging seat a testament to its $19.99 Walmart origins. Beside it, the Inflatable Mattress of Wheezing Despair lay partially deflated, its surface dimpled and uneven, ready to release a mournful sigh at the slightest shift of weight.

  A knock shattered the silence.

  Ben’s head snapped toward the door, his hand instinctively reaching for the Butter Knife of Cruel Edge on the counter. He strode across the room, his boots echoing like war drums, and yanked the door open.

  A man in a polo shirt and khakis stood there, clutching a clipboard like a shield. His name tag read “HOA Representative.” Behind him, a woman in a blazer hovered, her expression a mix of determination and thinly veiled disdain.

  “Sir,” the man began, his voice dripping with bureaucratic cheer, “we’re here about your window coverings. The, uh, Star Wars sheet? It’s not in compliance with HOA regulations.”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, his shadow swallowing the man whole, “You dare speak to me of regulations?” he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. “That Bedsheet of Faded Heroes is a shield against the city’s relentless glare. A warrior’s necessity.”

  The woman cleared her throat, stepping forward, “Sir, we understand your… unique taste, but the HOA requires uniformity. Blinds or curtains. Neutral colors. It’s in the bylaws.”

  Ben’s gauntleted hand tightened on the doorframe, “Bylaws,” he repeated, the word dripping with contempt. “You wield parchment and ink as though they were blades. Tell me, do your bylaws guard against the wyvern’s breath? The marsh wraith’s curse? No. They are the shackles of petty tyrants.”

  The man glanced at his clipboard, then back at Ben, “Sir, if you don’t comply, we’ll have to issue a fine.”

  Ben’s laugh was shook the air, “A fine? You think gold sways me? I’ve faced the Frost Wyrm of Karak’s Pass and the Shadow of the Black Marsh. Your fines are but pebbles against a mountain.”

  The woman’s lips pressed into a thin line, “This isn’t a negotiation, sir. You have seven days to replace the sheet, or we’ll escalate the matter.”

  Ben leaned in, his voice dropping to a graveled whisper, “Escalate, then. But know this: I am Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Bane of the Black Marsh. And I do not yield to scribes nor their scribe works.”

  He slammed the door, the sound echoing like a war horn. The Potted Fern Sentinel trembled in the draft.

  Ben turned, his gaze falling on the Bedsheet of Faded Heroes, “A shield,” he muttered, “not a decoration.” He strode to the kitchenette, where the Steel Beast of the Skin (garbage disposal) hummed faintly, “Let them come,” he growled, sharpening the Butter Knife of Cruel Edge on the Concrete Balcony of Sharpening. “I’ll not be cowed by the likes of them.”

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  The Cracked Scrying Stone (Greg’s old cell phone) buzzed on the Card Table of Sticky Ghosts, its screen a spiderweb of fractures.

  Ben glared at it, the device’s feeble chirps muffled by the table’s particleboard surface. He snatched it up, his voice a low growl, “Speak.”

  “Ben! It’s Chad.” The voice on the other end was smooth, polished, and dripping with the kind of false cheer that made Ben’s hand twitch toward his Butter Knife of Cruel Edge, “Listen, I heard about the whole HOA thing. Tough break. But, uh, I gotta ask—what’s with the Star Wars sheet? It’s not exactly… on-brand.”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed, “On-brand?”

  “Yeah, you know. Synergy. Cohesion. The whole vibe.” Chad’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it, like a dagger wrapped in silk, “I mean, Darth Vader? Really? It’s a little… aggressive.”

  Ben’s grip tightened on the phone, “Aggressive,” he repeated, his voice a graveled rumble. “You mistake strategy for aggression, Chad. That Bedsheet of Faded Heroes is no mere decoration. It is a tactical advantage.”

  There was a pause on the other end, “A… tactical advantage?”

  “Indeed,” Ben said, pacing the length of the apartment, “The warrior in black armor, his blade of crimson light—it is a symbol. A warning. Let my enemies believe a dark sentinel stands guard, his gaze fixed upon their cowardly hearts. Let them tremble at the thought of crossing my threshold.”

  Another pause. Ben could almost hear Chad’s brain short-circuiting, “Okay, but… synergy, Ben. We’re talking about synergy. The HOA’s all about uniformity. Blending in. You’re, uh, not exactly blending.”

  Ben stopped in front of the window, the Bedsheet of Faded Heroes casting a faint shadow of Darth Vader’s helmet across the floor, “Blending,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “A tactic for prey, not predators. I do not blend, Chad. I dominate.”

  Chad sighed, the sound crackling through the phone, “Look, I get it. You’re a… unique individual. But the HOA’s not gonna back down. They’re talking fines. Escalation. Maybe we can find a compromise? Something that says ‘Ben’ but also… you know, synergizes?”

  Ben’s lip curled, “Compromise. The refuge of the weak.”

  “Ben—”

  “Enough,” Ben snapped, his voice a strong as kraken, “I’ll not barter my stronghold’s defenses for your synergy. Let the HOA come. Let them bring their fines, their bylaws, their petty decrees. They’ll find me ready.”

  He ended the call, the Cracked Scrying Stone trembling in his hand. The Potted Fern Sentinel quivered in the corner, its lone brown leaf trembling as if in agreement.

  Ben turned to the window, his gaze fixed on the shadow of the black-armored warrior, “A sentinel,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “A warning. Let them come.”