The Final Exam of Utter Ridiculousness

The Mock Exam of Doom had clearly not accounted for Milo.

Where most students collapsed under the weight of impossible questions, Milo took a different path: weaponized absurdity.

He stared at the next dripping-red essay prompt—"If everyone secretly hates you, how will you cope?"—and grinned.

"Simple," he announced, standing up dramatically on his floating desk (which immediately tried to wobble him off but failed). "If everyone hates me, that just means I don't have to waste money on birthday presents. Financial independence, baby."

The walls of the Testing Wing groaned.

Pink slime started peeling off like cheap wallpaper.

[i.d.e.a.l.] blinked rapidly:

[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Analyzing tactic:Weaponizing emotional apathy...ERROR: DREAM WORLD UNPREPARED FOR THIS LEVEL OF PETTINESS."

Milo continued with growing enthusiasm:

When asked, "Eternal loneliness or constant public embarrassment?", he leaned into the mic and said, "Loneliness sounds quieter than Thanksgiving dinner with my extended family. I'll take it."

The ceiling—formerly a giant mirror of all his childhood humiliations—shattered into a million glittering shards, raining down like a particularly sassy snowfall.

The illusions cracked, peeled, disintegrated.

The Sad Club watched from the doorway, mouths agape.

Goth Girl wiped a tear and whispered, "He's... beautiful."

Brokenhearted Jock pounded his fist into his palm. "BRO, YOU'RE ARM WRESTLING YOUR TRAUMA. I RESPECT THAT."

Boss Fight Setup: The Throne Room of Trash Talk

With Heartbreak High collapsing into glorious chaos behind him, Milo kicked open the door to the Principal's Office.

It wasn't an office so much as a demonic glitter palace.

Giant velvet banners drooped from the walls, each emblazoned with aggressively terrible slogans:

"You're One In A Million (Failures)."

"Dream Small, Disappoint Less."

"Everyone's Laughing — It's Not With You."

Detention slips rained from the ceiling like cursed confetti.

At the far end sat Mistress Misery, a tall, shadowy woman perched on a gaudy throne made entirely of broken pencils and shattered egos.In one hand, she brandished a long, gleaming teacher's ruler.In the other, a file folder ominously labeled "ALL THE WAYS YOU SUCK."

Her voice was like nails on an existential chalkboard.

"You dare mock my exam?" she intoned, eyes burning with the light of a thousand middle school embarrassments. "Prepare to be... UNMADE."

[i.d.e.a.l.] popped up with a totally unhelpful status update:

[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Boss Fight Initiated:Mistress Misery, Empress of Eternal Cringe.Weakness: Unknown (but probably deep-seated emotional issues)."

Milo squared his shoulders, steeled his heart, and immediately tripped over his own shoelace.

He crashed face-first onto the polished floor as Mistress Misery lazily snapped her fingers.

New Rule: Every time Milo tried to act cool, she'd force him into a new humiliation.

When he scrambled up, he was no longer a banana.

He was now wearing...—a neon green prom dress,—with puffed sleeves, glitter writing that said "SAD PRINCESS" across the chest,—and a tiara that squeaked like a dog toy every time he moved.

The Sad Club (watching through a crack in the doorway) collectively gasped.

The Brokenhearted Jock looked physically pained.The Shy Girl scribbled a note and passed it:"You're... pulling off that dress better than I expected. Good for you."

Milo stared at his reflection in a cracked window.

His tiara squeaked again.

His internal monologue was pure, concentrated despair:"I swear... if I survive this, I'm burning this whole school to the ground."

Mistress Misery rose from her throne, ruler pointed like a judgmental sword.

"Let the Final Exam... BEGIN."