You barely had time to scream as the shadow overtook you. A blur of movement, warm air, and soft skin surrounded you—and then everything rose.
Faster than you could process, your entire world shifted.
Your ears popped. Your stomach dropped. And when the spinning stopped, you found yourself staring up at the enormous, surreal face of a woman in her early thirties, her voluptuous red hair framing her like a living flame. Her green eyes were huge and vibrant, narrowed slightly with confusion as she studied you between her fingers.
The store was a dull hum far below you now—just faint rumblings and echoes from some distant planet.
“What... the hell?” she murmured.
Her voice boomed all around you, but the words themselves were clear, smooth, and frighteningly intimate. Somehow, you could understand every syllable—as if the sound bypassed your ears and sank directly into your thoughts.
You gasped. “You can talk! Thank god—please help me! I need help! I’m human! Something happened, I don’t know how—”
She tilted her head, her expression intrigued and strangely amused. “You’re making noise,” she said slowly. “It’s like… squeaking? Are you alive?”
You waved your arms, shouted louder. “Yes! Yes! I’m a person! You have to help me!”
But her brow furrowed slightly. “Huh. I can’t tell if you’re intelligent or just acting weird. Maybe you’re some kind of toy drone...?”
Your stomach dropped again, but for a different reason now.
She didn’t understand you.
Not even a little.
But you understood everything she said.
A strange smile pulled at the corner of her lips. Not cruel—at least, not yet. Just curious.
“You’re not like anything I’ve seen,” she murmured. “Maybe some kind of prototype?”
Her green eyes sparkled with interest, and she slowly turned you in her fingers, inspecting your limbs, your clothes. Her nails were painted a deep forest green, and one of them brushed lightly over your chest. The pressure was minimal for her—but nearly knocked the wind out of you.
You flailed and shouted, but she just chuckled.
“Yeah. Definitely alive,” she said.
And then, after a brief pause:
“You're coming with me.”
Before you could protest, she dropped you into a soft cloth pouch—a small zippered compartment in her oversized handbag. You landed on a bed of receipts, loose breath mints, and a tube of lipstick that smelled strongly of spearmint and perfume.
Light vanished as the zipper closed.
Darkness. Motion. The rush of footsteps—her footsteps—shaking the air with every step. You could hear her humming softly as she walked out of the store.
You weren’t just lost.
You weren’t just tiny.
You were now owned.
You didn't know how long you were in there. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for the muffled sounds of the store to vanish, replaced by quieter indoor noises: a television. A faucet. Drawers. Soft footfalls on hardwood.
Then, light flooded in again.
She reached in, her fingers fishing through the clutter before plucking you out with ease. You were lifted again, and when the blur settled, you found yourself in her apartment—a modern, softly-lit space with bookshelves, houseplants, and a scent like vanilla and something spicy in the air.
She sat down on the edge of her couch and examined you again. This time more slowly. More deliberately.
“Well, little guy,” she said, setting you in her open palm. “Now I just need to decide what to do with you.”
Your heart raced.
She wasn’t calling the police. She wasn’t bringing you to scientists. She wasn’t asking for help.
She was thinking.
Planning.
You could see it in the slight movement of her lips, the flicker of thoughts behind her bright green eyes. Whatever conclusion she was coming to—it wasn’t one you were part of.
And just like that, your future began to splinter into dangerous directions.
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