Chillie Jean's expression wavered for a moment—her digital form flickered, distorting in jagged pixels before snapping back into place. Her smirk remained, but something about it felt… wrong. Off.
Karl frowned. "Chillie—"
Then, her entire demeanor shifted.
She straightened in her throne, lifting her chin with an aristocratic air, eyes narrowing as if peering down at him from an unseen pedestal. When she spoke again, her tone dripped with regal condescension.
"Oh, how delightful. Lord of Fries, protector of the delicate Pussy Queen of Fries, finally seeks wisdom from one as grand as myself."
Karl groaned, rubbing his temples. "Not this again."
Chillie Jean laughed, folding her arms. "Honestly, Karl, your destiny is a marvel. To rise from the grease-stained depths of mediocrity and claim your golden throne among the salted elite. Have you decided on your royal decree yet? Shall we impose a tax on ketchup lovers? Outlaw soggy fries?"