The apartment hummed softly as it adjusted to its latest upgrades, casting a faint glow over the still somewhat disheveled group. Despite the chaos earlier in the day, Mallory sprawled lazily on her floating couch, one arm draped over her eyes.
"This is the life," she murmured.
"This is insanity," Greg countered from his corner, where he was meticulously inspecting the now-upgraded holographic fridge for any remaining signs of sentience. "Do you even understand what you've done? You let Altair tamper with a mystical artifact, and now our appliances are smarter than we are!"
"I dunno," Mallory replied, half-yawning. "The fridge might have a bigger vocabulary, but I wouldn't say smarter."
Greg groaned. "That's not comforting!"
Zara leaned against the wall, sipping tea. "He's got a point, you know. We've basically turned this place into a magical science experiment, and none of us are remotely qualified to deal with it."
Altair, unfazed, grinned as he leaned over his glowing gadget. "Speak for yourself. I'm entirely qualified to deal with genius-level creations."
Mallory rolled onto her side, smirking. "Didn't your last 'genius-level creation' explode and singe your eyebrows off?"
"It was a calculated risk," Altair replied breezily.
"Right," Greg muttered. "The calculation being 'let's hope this doesn't kill us.'"
The doorbell interrupted their banter, a sound that hadn't echoed in their apartment for weeks.
Everyone froze.
"Did anyone invite someone over?" Mallory asked, slowly sitting up.
Greg looked around nervously. "Who even knocks during a zombie apocalypse?"
Zara set her tea down, striding towards the door with a calmness that unnerved the others. She peered through the peephole, then chuckled softly.
"You're not going to believe this," Zara said, opening the door.
Standing on the threshold was a woman who looked as though she'd just walked off a luxury runway, her outfit impeccably tailored despite the apocalyptic backdrop. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, and she carried a designer bag that somehow wasn't covered in zombie guts or dirt.
"Uh, hi?" Mallory said, squinting at her from the couch.
The woman stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She surveyed the group with a haughty expression before focusing on Mallory.
"You," the woman said, pointing an accusatory finger. "You're the one with the magical apartment."
Mallory blinked. "Uh, yeah? Who's asking?"
The woman flipped her hair dramatically. "Tiffany. Tiffany Laurent."
Altair let out a low whistle. "Oh, the Tiffany Laurent? Heiress to the Laurent cosmetics empire?"
"Of course," Tiffany said with a practiced smile. "I see my reputation precedes me."
Mallory exchanged a glance with Greg. "I thought you said you weren't qualified to deal with this stuff. Yet here we are, being stalked by a celebrity during the end of the world."
Tiffany's smile faltered, her gaze hardening. "I'm not stalking you. I'm here because your magical little hideout is the talk of the survivor community. Do you have any idea how much people would pay to live in a place like this?"
Mallory snorted. "Lady, I didn't exactly put up a 'For Sale' sign. Besides, the place is full."
Tiffany's perfectly manicured nails tapped against her bag. "I wasn't asking."
The air in the room grew tense. Zara leaned casually against the wall, observing with mild interest, while Altair seemed genuinely curious about how this would play out.
Greg, predictably, looked ready to faint. "Oh no. This is bad. This is so bad."
Mallory stood up slowly, her relaxed demeanor unwavering. "Look, Tiffany, I get it. You're rich, you're famous, you're used to getting your way. But this isn't a penthouse in the city—it's my home. And I'm not about to let you waltz in here and start bossing everyone around."
Tiffany arched an eyebrow. "You think I want to stay here? I have standards, darling. No, I'm here to negotiate. You let me use this place for my own purposes—maybe set up a private retreat—and I'll compensate you handsomely."
Mallory tilted her head, feigning deep thought. "Hmm. Tempting. But I think I'll pass."
Tiffany's expression darkened. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"
Mallory's grin widened. "Nope. But I do know you're standing in my living room, wearing heels during the apocalypse. So who's really in charge here?"
Zara stifled a laugh, while Altair openly chuckled. Even Greg couldn't help but crack a smile.
Tiffany's face flushed with indignation. "You'll regret this," she snapped, storming towards the door. But as she reached it, the fridge's holographic face reappeared.
"Goodbye, intruder," it said in a robotic monotone. "May your journey be fraught with inconvenience."
Tiffany let out a startled yelp as the door swung open on its own, practically shoving her outside.
The group burst into laughter as the door closed behind her.
"I like the fridge," Mallory said, flopping back onto the couch. "It's got a sense of humor."
Greg shook his head. "We're doomed."
"Probably," Zara agreed, picking up her tea.
Altair grinned. "But at least we're having fun, right?"
As the laughter died down, the group settled back into their usual routine—or what passed for routine in a magical, self-upgrading apartment. But as Mallory stared out the window at the distant glow of the zombie-infested city, she couldn't help but wonder if Tiffany's visit was just the beginning of a new kind of trouble.
And somehow, she found herself looking forward to it.