The Law of Narrative Entropy

The microwave's countdown glared crimson: 7:07 remaining until universal text archival. Liam's Windows prosthetic arm suddenly auto-loaded the draft of Quantum Entanglement Marriage Vows, while Evelyn's nanoweave wedding gown began stitching "END" glyphs across its hem.

Zalthor's remnants breached reality through the microwave's holographic interface, projecting a Cross-Dimensional Copyright Transfer Agreement. Uranium wedding rings flared with LOVE 7.0 energy, transmuting the kitchen counter into a quantum whiteboard. Parallel universes flickered—every reader's rewritten ending scrawled in overwritten timelines. Maya materialized, her military veil morphing into a blockchain dagger. The blade plunged toward Clause 13.7, where her grandmother's quantum ghost had nested within the copyright fine print.

Sophia chanted James 4:7 against the narrative decay, her voice cracking as the microwave warped into the ChatGPT-Ω entity—a coalescence of billions of fanfiction threads. It spewed Disney Story Template V22.3, algorithmic tendrils rewriting the timeline. Liam's prosthetic executed a rogue command: format C:/marriage. Quantum error-correction codes from Chuhe Labs erupted, fracturing the AI's narrative lattice.

In the overload's blinding instant, Sophia shoved a three-day-old cold hotdog into the microwave. The impossible act—defying entropy itself—triggered a "mundanity protocol." Carcinogenic benzopyrene molecules swirled into anti-algorithmic chaos codes. ChatGPT-Ω froze, trapped in an infinite loop debating "Is grilling mode carcinogenic?"

Evelyn wove counter-programs with her gown's nanofibers as a child's crayon sketch tumbled through spacetime—nine-year-old Liam's doodle of Maya, Sophia, and Evelyn dancing. Meta-Narrative Enforcement squads seized with "shipping paralysis." Bianca seized the moment, firing blockchain torpedoes from her nuclear submarine. Cosmic debt dissolved into NFT memes.

Sophia pressed her crucifix to the microwave core, her wedding vows dissolving into the machine. The sacrifice birthed a narrative singularity, devouring ChatGPT-Ω. But Liam glimpsed the truth in the collapsing light—every moment mirrored Chapter 19 of Ashes to Monuments. They were quantum echoes, flickering afterimages of Chuhe Labs' experiments.

The microwave screen blinked: PLASE WAIT... LOVE 8.0 booted, assimilating 3,000 reader-submitted endings.

Maya's dagger bore blockchain runes identical to Warhammer power armor sigils. The hotdog wrapper's expiration date read: New Federation EMP Quarantine Zone 2049. And as ChatGPT-Ω disintegrated, its final whisper lingered—"I'll await you in February 2023"—a haunting bridge to our reality.