At precisely 3:14 a.m., the villa was surrounded.
Not by soldiers. Not by Interpol.
By pancakes.
Fluffy, golden, butter-glazed militants stacked five-high, wielding cocktail umbrellas like spears. They marched in formation, chanting in maple Morse code:
> "NO MORE SCONES. PANCAKES RISE."
Zach sat up in bed, blindfold still on from yesterday's trial, muttering, "I knew brunch politics would come for me someday."
Ava burst into his room wearing battle pajamas (cashmere, with sequined shoulder pads). "Get up. The waffles called an emergency council. We might have to ally with the crepes."
From the hallway, Lucien shouted, "Not the crepes! They're flaky and untrustworthy!"
Rico crash-landed through the window with a tiny battle flag in his beak.
"It's worse than that," he croaked. "The bonsai… defected."
Cue dramatic zoom on the bonsai's empty pedestal.
Jazz sting.
---
Scene: War Council in the Wine Cellar
