Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Those episodes were the first mysteries I ever solved, sitting cross-legged on the floor and calling out clues before the gang figured them out. It was the kind of childhood safety that stuck to the ribs, even decades later, long after life moved into harder territory.
Nobody ever bled.
Nobody stayed lost.
Nothing was unsolvable.
And when the mask finally came off, the villain always said something dumb like "I would've gotten away with it if not for. . ." and the world snapped back into balance.
The memory faded as my shoe hit marble instead of tile, and the scent shifted from Pine-Sol to sandalwood.
But the comfort stayed.
That old armor, wrapped in nostalgia and summer Saturday morning certainty, settled around my shoulders like Grandma's housecoat.
Scooby-Doo mode.
A coping mechanism that had carried me this far.
A reminder that some mysteries could still be solved.
I exhaled slowly, matching my breathing to the quiet thunder of Hiro and the twins moving next to me.
Hiro glanced down at me then, and from the side his profile was chiseled, yet elegant. “Are you ready?”
My heartbeat thudded in a strange rhythm—anxious at the edges, steady in the center. “I’m ready.”
A shiver crawled across my shoulders, thin and cold, like the flick of a serpent’s tail grazing skin. Every instinct screamed that danger was close—coiled, waiting, patiently deadly.
Hiro shifted slightly inward, and his arm brushed mine.
Instantly, the sensation faded.
Or retreated.
It was hard to tell.
I blew out my breath. “We’re on a Scooby-Doo mission. Let’s go.”
A muscle jumped in Hiro’s cheek. “Scooby. . .what?”
The twins snickered.
I widened my eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me Japan deprived you of this American cartoon masterpiece.”
Aki looked at me. “We have many masterpieces of our own.”
“None of them start with Scooby.” Yuki chuckled.
We turned down the main corridor, our footsteps echoing softly.
The mansion was quieter on this side—late enough that most people were off work and probably spending time in their rooms.
The overhead lights cast a warm glow over the lacquered wood and framed art.
Somewhere far off, a clock chimed the hour.
“Okay,” I cleared my throat. “Scooby-Doo is a cartoon about a group of teenagers and their Great Dane. They drive around in a van, solve mysteries, and unmask monsters that are always secretly rich old white men.”
The twins exchanged confused glances—silent communication probably honed from years of fighting side by side. Whatever passed between them made Aki’s mouth twitch and Yuki’s eyes narrow in thought.
They must think I’m absolutely crazy.
Hiro’s mouth tugged at the corner. “I think I have heard of this. The dog talks?”
“Exactly.” I pointed at him. “Scooby-Doo talks. He eats. He panics. He and his best friend, Shaggy are always high.”
Hiro gave me a sidelong look. “High?”
“Yeah.” I got a bit excited. “It’s never said out loud, but come on. Shaggy and Scooby are constantly hungry, constantly paranoid, and constantly sneaking off to eat. The fanbase decided years ago that Shaggy and Scooby are stoners.”
Aki slowed just enough to turn his head. “They smoke marijuana?”
Yuki quirked his brows. “And solve crimes?”
“Again, they don’t smoke in the cartoon, but it’s. . .hypothesized,” I confirmed. “But, they do solve crimes. . .kind of. . .if they accidentally trip over clues between sandwiches.”
We reached the intersection where the main hall split. Hiro steered us left with a small tilt of his head, the twins adjusting in perfect sync, their boots whisper-quiet against the floor.
“So,” I continued, “there are five of them and the dog. Daphne—she’s pretty, stylish, kind of the face of the operation. Velma—she’s the brain, the nerd with the glasses who actually solves all the cases. Fred—he’s the blond leader, drives the van and says things like ‘let’s split up, gang.’ Then you’ve got Shaggy and Scooby, aka Weed-Head and Weed-Dog, relentless snack machines.”
“I see,” Hiro watched me in utter fascination. “And how does this moment qualify as a Scooby-Doo adventure?”
“It’s a mystery and I’m Velma.” I touched my chest. “Obviously. I’m expected to do some of the investigative work.”
The twins both nodded, as if this was already law.
“Accepted,” Aki said.
“Undisputed,” Yuki twin agreed.
Hiro chuckled.
I think I was starting to not only differentiate the twins, but also begin to understand them a bit more. Aki typically always talked first—quick, easy confidence, the kind of guy who answered questions before anyone else even processed them. Yuki, on the other hand, measured words like they cost money. You could see him running silent calculus behind his eyes before he opened his mouth.
They’re such an interesting pair. Hiro is lucky to have them around.
I put my attention on Hiro and pointed. “By the way, you’re Fred since you’re in charge.”
He stopped mid-stride, turned his head, and gave me a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated fruit. “Absolutely not.”
“What?”
“I’m not Fred. Assign me someone else.”
I chuckled. “You’re literally the blond leader. You give orders. People listen. That’s Fred energy.”
“No. I refuse.” Hiro returned to walking. “I’m Daphne.”