The moment David sent that photo, the group chat's collective ego took a critical hit.
There he was—in a beautifully staged, definitely-not-casual group photo—with a Pikachu perched casually on his shoulder, wearing a custom red and black cap tilted ever-so-slightly like it had just come from a fashion week runway. Pikachu's sleepy face and slightly smug expression screamed, "Yeah, I generate electricity and style."
But the real MVP was sitting on David's lap.
A Ralts. But not just any Ralts. No, this one looked like it had just finished filming a perfume commercial in Paris. Her delicate light blue hair framed her small face, and she wore a black-and-white maid outfit that somehow managed to look both elegant and terrifyingly expensive. A light pink bow sat on her head, adding just the right touch of sweetness, like icing on a cupcake that could probably defeat you in battle and look good doing it.
The photo practically radiated: "Yes, I'm better than you. No, I won't apologize."
And if that wasn't enough of a slap, David added the finishing blow underneath:
[Bloody Dark King: I really envy you. You get a Royal Starter. Unlike me, I only have two ordinary shiny Pokémon. 😔]
The group chat imploded.
People's mental states buckled like folding chairs under a Snorlax.
[+60 Negative Emotion Value from Luna]
[+100 from Tom]
[+70 from Jake]
The numbers just kept rolling in like David had opened an emotional ATM.
You could practically hear the gasps from phones around the city. For the unfortunate souls who had flexed their standard-issue Charmanders and Squirtles just moments earlier, the high had vanished faster than a Zubat in a cave. Their proud little fire lizards now looked like knockoff toys from a dollar store.
The chat was silent for a moment, like everyone needed time to reboot their mental systems.
Then, finally:
[Luna]: WAAAAHHH! This was supposed to be between you and Jake! Why are you hitting bystanders like us with your emotional damage cannon?! 😭
[Lee]: +1.
[Tom]: +1.
It was a massacre. The group chat had gone from popcorn-sipping spectators to collateral damage in a blink.
Most of the students had entered the chat with the same strategy: watch Jake and David destroy each other while quietly sipping their juice boxes from the sidelines. Maybe drop a "lol" here or a "damn" there. Nothing risky.
But David's message was an AOE (Area of Emotional damage) nuke. There were no safe corners. No neutral zone. If you existed in that chat, your pride was vaporized.
Meanwhile, Jake was staring at his phone like it had just called him ugly. He hadn't responded yet.
Probably because he was still trying to comprehend the visual assault that was David's Pikachu and Ralts. One was a tired-looking electricity god. The other looked like it was about to serve you tea and then slap you with psychic energy if you dared spill it.
Jake's own photo of Bulbasaur—the "garlic bastard" in question—looked suddenly… very green. Very... leafy. Kind of like garnish on a plate next to David's main course.
David, of course, was unfazed.
He leaned back on the couch, smirking while Pikachu continued jogging sadly on the electricity wheel in the background like some kind of overworked fitness influencer.
Ralts sipped tea with invisible psychic hands.
He didn't even need to type another word. The photo had spoken. And it screamed:
"You think you're flexing? Sit down, kid."
Jake's soul was split in real-time.
And David?
He was just getting started.
Although Pikachu was considered a "bad street electric mouse" by most—basically the Pokémon equivalent of a used car that's had ten owners and smells like burnt toast—David's Pikachu was something else entirely.
This wasn't your grandma's Pikachu.
No, his Pikachu looked like it had just come out of a luxury spa, exfoliated, massaged, and given a red carpet blowout. The fur was so glossy it could've been used in shampoo commercials. Its cheeks sparked with that crisp, confident energy like it didn't just generate electricity—it curated it. Even its posture screamed, "Yes, I'm aware I'm hot."
Anyone with even a fraction of a brain cell could tell: this Pikachu was not normal.
It wasn't just powerful. It was powerful with an attitude.
As for the Ralts?
Yeah, good luck finding another one like her.
Shiny Ralts were already rarer than a slow Magikarp winning a 100-meter dash, but this one? She was majestic. Elegant. The kind of Pokémon you'd expect to walk down a velvet staircase while a live orchestra played behind her. And she was sitting on David's lap like she owned the place.
Wearing a black and white maid outfit.
With a pink bow.
If that doesn't scream, "I'm classy but I'll end you with psychic trauma," nothing does.
Now, here's the kicker. Shiny Pokémon weren't just rare. They were practically legendary. The Alliance had rules so strict around shiny Pokémon that it made adopting a Ditto look like borrowing a pen. You couldn't just go out and buy a Ralts like that. These weren't sold. Ever. Not even on shady back-alley PokéBay auctions where you could also buy a suspicious Moon Stone and some guy's expired Poké Snacks.
The only real way to get one was poachers. And even then, the price was comparable to a quasi-legendary. That's right—David was casually flaunting a Pokémon that cost as much as a Dragonite mortgage.
And the one on his lap wasn't just a shiny—it was a Flash variant.
The kind of thing that statistically appears once every few million Ralts.
By this point, the group chat had fully lost it.
David didn't even need to speak anymore. He just had to exist.
The speculation had begun.
[Faisal]: Holy crap! David, are you secretly from some mega-rich underground family?!
[Arun]: The three-year hiding period has ended. We welcome the return… of the DRAGON KING! 🐉👑
At this point, the chat wasn't even trying to be logical. They were just spiraling into meme-fueled chaos. One kid started spamming gifs of dragons emerging from volcanoes. Another posted conspiracy theories that David's real identity was the long-lost heir of the Champion League.
It was pandemonium.
But David?
He didn't care.
He wasn't looking at the chat anymore.
He was staring thoughtfully at his Negative Emotion Points panel like a Wall Street analyst.
"Huh," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "That's weird…"
He stroked his chin dramatically, as if solving a murder mystery.
"The points this time are… way higher than usual."
David scratched his head. "Why is the unit value so much higher? I mean, I've humiliated this class before. Regularly. So what changed?"
It was true. Normally, when he stirred the pot, he'd get a steady trickle of emotional breakdowns. But this time? This was a flood. A tsunami of teenage despair and envy.
His frown deepened. "Something's up…"
Meanwhile, Pikachu was still jogging miserably on the power-generating hamster wheel in the corner, quietly resenting its life choices. Ralts sipped a metaphorical psychic latte and watched TikToks in her head.
But David stayed focused on the panel, a man obsessed.
More points. More profit. But why?
The emotional damage had become… lucrative.
David wasn't entirely sure if the emotional meltdown he'd caused in the class group chat was just extra spicy this time, or if he'd accidentally uncovered some kind of cheat code in the universe.
Either way, the emotional damage output was off the charts.
While the group chat was still burning like a forest fire of envy and disbelief, David leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he stared at his screen like a financial analyst reading a volatile stock chart.
Something wasn't adding up.
"I swear, this is more than usual…" he muttered, scrolling through the Negative Emotion Value logs. Numbers were flashing on the screen like a slot machine on tilt. Most of the time, when he trolled the group, he got a modest harvest—enough to feel smug, not enough to open a Swiss bank account.
But this time? Tom alone was hemorrhaging points like a broken vending machine. It was beautiful.
David scratched his chin like a scholar in deep thought—if that scholar also had a history of cyberbullying his classmates with rare Pokémon photos.
He'd been studying this "negative emotion system" for a while now, and a few patterns were starting to emerge. One thing was clear: the stronger the emotional reaction, the higher the value.
Duh. Basic drama math.
But there was one theory he hadn't confirmed yet—and it bugged him.
Did stronger Trainers yield more points?
Did Pokémon power levels scale the emotional output?
In other words, would roasting a rookie trainer net him a mild harvest, while emotionally annihilating an Elite Four member would basically turn his screen gold and trigger a jackpot sound?
Right now, the difference was too small to say. A few dozen points here and there. It might just be mood swings. Tom, for instance, had the emotional stability of a balloon in a cactus store—any little thing could push him over the edge.
Still, the hypothesis was there.
Maybe it wasn't just emotional chaos that mattered. Maybe Trainer power level mattered too.
If that was true…
David's eyes sparkled with entrepreneurial greed.
Then he wouldn't just keep bullying his classmates for fun and profit. No, no, no. He'd take the fight to bigger fish—Gym Leaders, Elites, even Champions.
Why waste time sheep-shearing high school kids, when he could go full industrial-scale wool harvesting?
"Why pick on Tom when I can emotionally obliterate the Champion and retire with a billion points?" David whispered to himself, voice dripping with ambition. "That's not trolling. That's strategy."
The mental image of a stunned Champion sobbing in front of cameras while David collected negative emotion like frequent flyer miles made him giddy for a second.
But then reality came crashing in like a wet Pidgey.
He looked down at his own scrawny arms.
"…Right. Minor detail. I'm a literal twig. My Pikachu's one sneeze away from needing therapy. And my other Pokémon thinks it's a maid from a fantasy dating sim."
The fantasy of storming the Pokémon League collapsed immediately. David deflated onto his couch with a long, overdramatic sigh.
Across the room, Pikachu was still dutifully jogging inside the hamster wheel generator, cheeks sparking with effort. It paused mid-step, sensing David's stare.
David didn't say a word, but his face said everything.
Pathetic.
Pikachu narrowed its eyes. "Pika…"
That look… that look was disrespectful. It was the kind of look you give to a knockoff toaster that just set off the fire alarm.
David turned away, done with Pikachu's emotional sensitivity. "Tch. Can't even sneeze near a Butterfree without passing out."
But then, just as quickly, David snapped back into focus, stretching out dramatically like a cat on a Sunday morning. He cracked his knuckles and grinned.
"Welp. Looks like I've got no choice but to keep emotionally tormenting my classmates. All in the name of science."
Somewhere, the universe sighed.
And the classmates?
Already on the brink.
[Tom]: BROTHER DAVID. PLEASE. MY RALTS!!!
Tom's suffering was legendary at this point. He'd once been so excited about his dream Gardevoir that he started planning coordinated outfits. Then David swooped in like a demon in Gucci, snatching every Ralts within a 50-mile radius.
Every. Single. One.
Now, Tom lived in fear. PTSD-level fear. He couldn't even think the word "Psychic-type" without breaking into tears.
The emotional value system buzzed again:
[Negative Emotion Value +100 from Tom…]
[Negative Emotion Value +100 from Tom…]
[Negative Emotion Value +100 from Tom…]
David let out a low whistle.
"At this rate, I should get Tom a therapist. Or at least a loyalty card."
Pikachu groaned quietly on the wheel.
Ralts adjusted her pink bow, still scrolling through psychic Instagram.
And David?
He smiled, stretched again, and opened the class group chat.
Science was calling.
***
The group chat was still a smoldering mess of envy, passive-aggressive emojis, and shattered dreams when suddenly—Luna, ever the sharp-eyed buzzkill—pounced on a potential flaw in David's flex.
[Luna]: David, hold up. You said you had two Shiny Pokémon, right? But your Pikachu doesn't even look Shiny?? It just has a… hat?
She'd been staring at the photo like it held the secrets of the universe, zooming in and squinting like a forensic detective at a crime scene.
To be fair, her confusion was understandable. David's Pikachu, despite being majestic and smug as hell, looked—color-wise—exactly like any other electric rodent you'd find on a beginner's route. The only standout feature was the red-and-black snapback perched cockily on its head like it was about to drop a SoundCloud mixtape.
[Bloody Dark King]: Ah, yes. That's because my Pikachu's special Shiny ability… is that its shiny color is so rare it's not even visible.
[Luna]: …
It was the kind of answer that could make a philosophy professor cry.
Instantly, a fresh wave of emotional damage rippled through the group.
[Negative Emotion Value +60 from Luna…]
[Negative Emotion Value +30 from Grace…]
[Negative Emotion Value +70 from Jake…]
Somewhere, Jake was probably lying on the floor, quietly sobbing into a pillow embroidered with the word "Justice."
Once again, David had used pure nonsense to break the chat's collective psyche. The room fell into a stunned, horrified silence. No one dared post photos of their Pokémon anymore. No one dared dream.
The shadow of David's hat-wearing, possibly-not-actually-Shiny Pikachu loomed over the group like an emotional nuke.
Except one man.
One desperate soul.
Tom.
[TOM]: Brother David! King David! Master among Trainers! Please—can I meet your Ralts tomorrow? Please! Just a little look! A glance! A sniff! Anything!
David leaned back, grinning at his screen like a loan shark watching someone offer their kneecaps as collateral.
[Bloody Dark King]: Hmm… I don't know…
He let the dots hang ominously.
Tom got the message instantly. The boy had learned the dark art of tribute.
Ding!
A transfer popped up. 1,000 Alliance Coins. Instant deposit.
[TOM]: DONE. I'll cover your food expenses for the whole month! Even snacks! Premium snacks! The kind with foil packaging!
David didn't hesitate for a second. The moment the coins hit, he tapped "Accept" with the reflexes of a ninja on caffeine.
"Now that's respect," David murmured to himself, pocketing the digital currency like a professional Pokémon pimp. The cash might be digital, but the satisfaction was real.
He looked down at his two prized partners—Pikachu, who had now curled into a smug yellow donut on the floor, and Ralts, who was delicately adjusting her frilly maid outfit and preparing for her beauty sleep.
Despite now technically being a mini-millionaire, David nodded sagely to himself. "Still gotta save where I can. One day you're rich, the next you're selling Berries door to door because Ralts wanted glitter food and Pikachu short-circuited the microwave again."
It was important to plan ahead. A fiscal genius like him didn't become emotionally wealthy by being careless.
David smirked and sent one last message in the group chat, a meme of himself with the caption:
[Confidence Level: Over 9000.jpg]
Then he logged off like a king exiting the throne room.
With no new drama in the chat, and a big day ahead at school where in-person emotional torment awaited, David decided to call it a night. He put his phone on silent, washed up in record time (which mostly involved splashing water and ignoring 90% of his face), and flopped onto his bed like a sack of tired sarcasm.
At some point, without him noticing, Pikachu and Ralts had claimed the corner of the bed, snuggling up like a wholesome plushie display. Pikachu was gently snoring, tiny sparks popping with each exhale. Ralts had one arm draped over his tail, her frilly bow slightly askew.
David smiled to himself.
All was quiet. No more begging. No more jealousy. No more nonsense.
Just peace.
For now.
Tomorrow?
Back to business.
****
The next morning, for the first time in what could only be described as historically unprecedented, David showed up to class early. So early, in fact, that the classroom looked like a horror movie set—empty chairs, flickering ceiling light, and not a single soul in sight.
If punctuality were a person, it would've fainted from shock.
David wasn't here to suddenly become a model student though—let's not get carried away. He was here on a mission.
He reached into his bag and pulled out two precious items:
A bank card Melissa had reluctantly handed him.
A carefully packaged Galarian Zigzagoon egg, looking like it came straight out of a Pokémon-themed luxury bakery.
With both items in hand, he strutted to the teacher's office like he was about to deliver a mafia bribe. Reaching the door, he gave it a few casual knocks with the back of his knuckles.
"Knock knock. Boom boom. Courtesy optional."
From inside came a voice colder than a Dewgong's bathwater.
"Come in."
Ah, yes. The elegant yet deadly tone of Melissa—his homeroom teacher, parole officer, and reluctant babysitter all rolled into one.
David casually slid the egg behind his back like a child hiding a broken vase. He opened the door and stepped into the office with the energy of a raccoon caught stealing snacks at midnight.
Because he was absurdly early (which frankly felt like a glitch in the simulation), the office was completely deserted aside from Melissa, who was hunched over her desk scribbling lesson plans like they had personally insulted her.
She looked up, saw who it was, and her entire face went from "mildly irritated" to "I'd like to speak to the manager of fate." She let out a sharp snort, then immediately returned to her paperwork with the enthusiasm of someone ignoring a tax collector.
David wasn't fazed. This woman had scolded him with such precision over the years that he had developed an emotional callus. He walked right up to her desk, leaned down, and smiled with the exaggerated sweetness of someone about to be punched.
"Teacher Melissa… are you busy?" he asked gently, like he wasn't seconds away from being verbally body-slammed.
Now that he was up close, he caught a whiff of her signature perfume—some dangerous mix of lavender, strictness, and the faint smell of 'don't try me today.'
Melissa didn't even look up.
"Oh, me? Just here working," she said icily. "Unlike certain students who somehow blow 300,000 coins at a 'spa,' get arrested, and then call me to bail them out from a holding cell ."
David scratched the back of his head sheepishly, grinning like a man on trial for grand stupidity.
"I mean… technically, that did happen, but when you say it like that, it just sounds bad."
It was bad. But did he learn his lesson?
Absolutely not.
David leaned in with that smug grin of his—the kind of grin that made you want to throw a textbook at him and then another one just to be sure. He stood tall, dramatically holding something behind his back like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat.
"Well," he said with a sparkle in his eye, "I came here to give you a present."
Melissa, who had been moments away from murdering her lesson plan with red ink, slowly looked up. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"A present?" she repeated, her tone halfway between curious and ready-to-call-security.
David's smirk widened, and his eyebrows wiggled ever so slightly.
Melissa stared at him harder. Something about that face screamed "I'm about to regret listening to this idiot."
That stupid grin. That sparkle of mischief in his eye. That annoying aura of someone who's too proud of their own nonsense.
She squinted.
"That smile... it's criminal. I know that smile."
As if on cue, a soft ding echoed in David's head.
[Received Negative Emotion Value from Melissa: +10...]
[+20...]
[+30...]
David blinked.
Wait… he was giving a present. A good deed! A moment of generosity! Shouldn't the emotion points be positive?
Then again, this was Melissa. A woman who once deducted points from his homework for breathing too loudly. Maybe suspicion was just her default state.
Melissa, still eyeing him like he was a time bomb wrapped in sarcasm, slowly placed her pen down and folded her arms.
"I swear, David," she said, voice icy, "if you tell me this is a special gift that is something that'll keep me full for nine months or something dirty like that, I will personally knock you into next semester."
David's soul paused mid-air.
Then his brain rebooted.
Then he blinked again, utterly baffled.
"Wait... full for nine months?" he asked, tilting his head. "What kind of food keeps you full that long? Is that, like, a new Snorlax brand protein bar or something?"
Melissa's expression imploded. Her cool, professional demeanor shattered like a Poké Ball hitting a Geodude. She blushed furiously.
"I—no—I didn't mean—THAT'S NOT—"
Her cheeks turned crimson. A full, rich tomato red that made her look less like a teacher and more like a shy anime character caught in a bad romance plot. She immediately turned away, coughing into her sleeve like she was choking on regret.
David, meanwhile, had the smuggest look in the history of smug looks. His eyes twinkled with evil joy.
"Ohh... you meant that. My beautiful teacher Melissa, I am shocked. Scandalized! Is this what you think of your students? But if you feel that way about me, I can only reluctantly sacrifice my purity...."
Melissa turned back with murder in her eyes.
"You're dead, David."
"Wait! Wait!" he yelled, waving both hands before she could hurl the stapler. "At least look at the present first!"
He quickly reached behind his back and produced the object he'd been hiding: a carefully wrapped Pokémon egg, patterned with a black-and-white zigzag design and a little tag that read "Certified Galarian."
Melissa froze.
Her eyes locked on the egg like a Luxray spotting prey.
And in that moment—just for a split second—she looked like a little kid on Christmas morning.
David grinned.
"Recognize it?"
Melissa didn't answer. She didn't have to.
This wasn't just any Pokémon egg. This was the egg. A Galarian Zigzagoon egg.
One of Her favorite Pokémon of all time. She had talked about it before—dreamed about it. Saved up for it. Three years of hard-earned savings meant for this one rare find… savings she eventually gave up just to bail David out of his latest financial disaster.
And now he was holding the egg out to her like it was a peace offering... or a very weird apology bouquet.
Melissa's expression slowly melted from murder to disbelief.
She reached out with trembling hands, gently cradling the egg like it was a sacred relic. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
"How... how did you even get this?" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
David shrugged nonchalantly.
"Just a little luck, a little charm, and a suspiciously generous guy online who probably regrets everything now."
Melissa didn't laugh. She was too stunned.
Too touched.
David had barely finished handing over the Pokémon egg when Melissa gasped, as if she'd just found a diamond-encrusted Snorlax in her sock drawer.
"Galarian Zigzagoon's egg!" she cried.
Her voice rang out like she'd just hit the jackpot on a slot machine. Carefully—no, reverently—she picked up the egg with both hands, cradling it like it was a baby made of marshmallows and dreams.
She then placed it on a cushion on her desk like it was royalty and even adjusted the angle so it looked comfortable. Yes, the egg looked comfortable. Not her. The egg.
Melissa stepped back, stared at the egg lovingly, and then suddenly narrowed her eyes and turned back to David like a prosecutor catching a suspect mid-escape.
"Wait a minute—where did you get the money?"
David blinked. Uh-oh.
She had a point. His financial situation wasn't exactly subtle. The school knew. The students knew. The janitor knew. David was practically the poster child for "Free Sample" lifestyle. Even vending machines gave him pity snacks sometimes.
And she knew it too—especially because she had given him 300,000 coins out of her own savings just last week. Coins she had secretly been saving for this exact egg. A Galarian Zigzagoon egg. Her dream. Her baby. Her future Zigzagging companion. But she gave it all up to help him.
Now here he was, casually delivering the very thing she sacrificed. And she was connecting dots fast.
Melissa's eyes widened in realization. Her jaw dropped slightly.
"You didn't go to that shady Golduck salon next door, did you?"
David recoiled.
"WHAT?"
Melissa stepped closer, her blue eyes narrowing like a teacher about to assign a pop quiz for fun.
"The Golduck place. That sketchy one next to the Salon you visited. Inspector Nakamura said they were also running... 'extra services' under the radar. You didn't sell your innocence for an egg, did you?"
David's face contorted in horror.
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!"
But she wasn't done.
Her eyes suddenly lit up again, like she remembered something juicy.
"Wait. That actually makes sense. No wonder I found that pack of Durex in your backpack last week."
David froze.
His soul left his body.
The air grew ten degrees colder.
[Obtained Negative Emotion Value from David: +50… +60… +70…]
In his head, David screamed: Durex, I am now your eternal enemy. We are at war.
He opened his mouth to deny, to defend his honor, to give a moving speech—but then he caught the glint in Melissa's eyes.
That look. That evil little smirk.
She was messing with him.
He'd been played.
David slumped forward like a soggy Farfetch'd.
"Seriously? Revenge? You went this far just to prank me back?"
Melissa chuckled charmingly like a villain sipping tea after dropping a city into the ocean. She reached out and pinched his cheek with her fingers.
"Oh David," she said sweetly, "you don't tolerate guys like you. You toy with them."
David groaned and batted her hand away.
"Fine, fine, I'll tell you. I got the egg from a guy at the black market. It was a mispriced deal. He thought it was a Spearow egg or something."
Of course, he was lying. The truth—that he won it in a magical system lottery—would just make her think he'd hit his head again. Or worse, she'd confiscate the system like it was a Tamagotchi.
Melissa paused, studying him with the gaze of someone who could detect lies in her sleep.
But then she slowly nodded.
"Makes sense," she said, though her voice still held that cautious teacher tone. "You barely have enough money for lunch. No way you bought that egg at full price."
David was mid-sigh-of-relief when she added:
"Alright. That settles it. This egg cancels out the 300,000 coins you owe me."
"Huh?" David blinked.
Melissa turned her back to him, her voice surprisingly soft now.
She was still pretending to be calm, but David could tell—there was something a little emotional in the air. Her shoulders were slightly stiff. Her head tilted like she was looking at the Zigzagoon egg with way too many feelings.
She hadn't told anyone that she'd given up her savings for that egg. Not her colleagues. Not her students. Not even her pillow. But here was David, holding that dream in front of her.
Maybe the idiot had a heart after all.
David, meanwhile, was already way ahead.
He silently pulled out a bank card and slid it onto her desk next to the egg.
"Money's repaid. Egg's interest. Card's yours. Password's your birthday, because I'm not a total barbarian." Then he added softly, " Thank you for everything Melissa, for always being there for me."
Then, without another word, he turned and strolled out of the office, cape metaphorically fluttering in the wind. Mostly because if someone saw Melissa crying and hugging him in the office, rumors would explode. And he really didn't want to be the star of "After-School Tutoring: Forbidden Edition."
In the now-silent office, Melissa stood still.
She looked down at the egg. Then at the bank card. Then at the door.
Her lips curled into the tiniest smile, and her eyes shimmered—not enough to cry, just enough to feel something.
"That guy... he really did this for me?" she muttered, shaking her head and wiping her eyes.
Her face turned pink as she glanced at the egg again.
"Is he... trying to impress me? Does he really like his teacher? "
She scoffed, mostly at herself.
"Hmph. He's ten years too early to try that trick. I won't fall for that again."
And yet, she reached out and gently touched the egg with a smile that lingered far too long.