Maku is nestled in what can only be described as a blanket-based transcendence event. A divine burrito of serotonin, sealed in warmth, stitched together with denial, and lightly toasted by the morning sun. She is somewhere between REM sleep and becoming one with the concept of cozy itself.

And the room around her? A weaponized pastel fever dream. Bubblegum and baby dreams. Walls streaked with pink clouds so violently pastel they’re basically committing a sugar-based hate crime against your retinas. It doesn’t feel painted—it feels frosted. Like a cupcake made eye contact with your childhood and whispered, “remember joy?” It’s less a bedroom and more a hallucination that smells like marshmallows and childhood repression.

Light drips through the window like it’s been filtered through a teddy bear, a wish, and someone’s unspoken childhood trauma. Everything here is soft. Too soft. Suspiciously soft. It’s warm in the way a trap is warm. Comfortable in the way that makes you wonder if comfort was ever safe to begin with. You could lick the walls and they’d probably taste like birthday cake and codependency. Metaphorically? Not quite sure yet.

And at the center of this shrine to cuteness?
Maku.
Sleeping.
Peacefully.
Like a girl who once filed a cease and desist with drama.

But outside the door, a different force brews.
On that door hangs a hand-painted sign—cute, but with undertones of desperation:
"DO NOT ENTER.
Unless you’re cute."

Beneath it, a second note has been aggressively taped on in glitter gel pen:
"NO MIMI."
In all caps. Underlined. Twice.
A tiny doodle of Mimi's face with an angry X over it decorates the corner.

Suddenly, a shadow creeps down the hallway.
Short. Chaotic. Overly caffeinated.
There’s a pause.
A glint of glitter.
A single, dramatic snap as the tip of a pen uncaps.

The “NO” is obliterated in sparkling strokes. In its place, scrawled with manic purpose:
“YES, ACTUALLY. MIMI IS THE CUTEST.”

And underneath that: “Mimi Clause: Cuteness Exemption Activated!”
Sparkles. Hearts. A smiley face with fangs.

From within the room, one of the stuffed alpacas tips over. Just… tips.

Foreshadowing? Probably.

The door to Maku's bedroom doesn't creak. It doesn't open. It detonates.

KA-KRACKATHOOM!!!
The kind of sound that implies insurance claims.

And from the smoldering remains of what used to be a functioning doorframe, a figure stumbles forward—frazzled, unrepentant, and clearly on her third bad decision before breakfast. It’s Mimi.
She looks like she’s been politely nuked.

Her hair is puffed out like a marshmallow that tried to fight a microwave and lost. Still crackling at the ends. Still somehow cute. Her hoodie—now missing one sleeve—is somehow on backwards and inside out like it’s trying to escape the shame. She’s coughing up glitter, every breath comes with sparkles and regret.

From her glitter-pink bed fortress, Maku barely stirs.

As Mimi's feet hit the carpet of Maku's bedroom, the sunlight retreats. Like, literally. It just decided that it had somewhere it would rather be. Anywhere but here. More specifically, anywhere but with Mimi. The golden rays that had been peacefully bathing the room just reverse Uno their way right out the window. The air goes cold and then—

Every plushie in the room—previously just minding their adorable, button-eyed business—slowly turns.
One by one.
Like a cursed carousel powered by disbelief and disappointment.
Their tiny heads creak with the sound of “we’ve seen too much.”
Their glassy little eyes now gleam, not with childlike wonder, but with the haunted stare of witnesses.
Each one silently, unanimously conveying:

“Her. Again.”

The judgment is not loud. But it is deafening.

Mimi waves a hand in front of Maku’s face.

Mimi leans closer, pokes Maku's cheek.

A smile of happiness blooms across Maku’s sleeping face—slow, soft, and suspiciously perfect. The kind of smile that that suggests she's dreaming about victory, emotional revenge, or someone else's downfall. Maybe even all three.

Mimi sighs and flops onto Maku’s bed with a whumpf. The plushies haven’t moved... but they feel closer somehow. Watching. Judging. Planning.

Mimi sits up and spots it. Third shelf. Towering over the other plushies. A bunny. But not like the others.

Mimi steps closer. Sir Bunbun isn’t just a plushie. He is a warning stitched into cotton. Broad-shoulders. Barrel-chest. And his fur? Matte. Coarse. Slightly damp, like it had just finished a solo CrossFit session in a sauna. He doesn’t sit—he’s posted up. Spine rigid. Legs spread like he is asserting dominance over the shelf.

Mimi reaches up and pokes it. The plush doesn't give like it should’ve. It doesn’t squish. It thuds. Like a protein bar with anger issues.

Mimi narrows her eyes. Something is off. The air around the plushie felt... thick. Like a bad mixture of Red Bull and Joe Rogan podcasts. 

Sir Bunbun begins to inhale. But not like a plushie, no. It is the inhale of someone preparing to deliver unsolicited motivational speech about rubbing banana peels on their face to maximize hydration.

That’s when Mimi cracks.

She lurches backward and scrambles, hoodie flapping, hands digging through oversized pockets like a raccoon on a timer.

She stares.
Then grins.

Two forces face off—neither comprehensible. Both profoundly wrong. One forged from processed corn syrup. The other from grind and discipline.

Mimi unleashes.

A barrage of candy erupts from her hands like a deranged confectionery cannon— each projectile sails with unstable grace, guided by a mind that only knows of bad decisions.

Sir Bunbun—unnaturally fast, insultingly precise—dodges. Every. Single. One.
Lemon jawbreaker—ducked.
Cherry lollipop—spinned.
And then? He backflips off the shelf and over a Tootsie Pop without breaking eye contact.

Mimi. Gasps. Loudly.

Mimi pulls out her trump card: the caramel square.
Heavy. Ominous. Sticky with consequence.
It gleams in her palm with the weight of destiny.

Mimi hurls it midair just as Sir Bunbun reaches the apex of his flip. 
But the caramel does not obey. 

Ting!

The caramel square ricochets—off the ceiling fan. Off the wall. Off the poster of that anime Maku pretends she doesn’t watch. It curves back around like a sugar boomerang— 

THWAP!

—and smacks Mimi directly in the forehead.

Sir Bunbun lands from his backflip silently—how unholy. He moonwalks—moonwalks—past Mimi. Expression unchanged. Morals questionable.

Still stumbling back from being hit by her own attack, Mimi wobbles like a Jenga tower made of anxiety and Skittles. For one horrifying second, the world goes silent.
But this isn't your normal kind of silence.
This is the kind of silence that lets thoughts creep in.
And unfortunately, they do.
For a single, treacherous second, Mimi starts thinking.
Just a flicker. Just a sliver of introspection. A mental papercut.

Maybe… maybe she’s the problem. Maybe it’s time to grow up. To take responsibility. To become a Person™ with a Schedule and a Budget and Emotional Boundaries.
Is this… maturity? Mimi begins to feel… growth.

Her stomach turns.

Something’s wrong. Not with the thought itself—but with the fact that it exists at all.
Thinking. Is. Wrong.
It’s unnatural. It’s sticky. It’s like her brain is trying to install a moral compass she never ordered.
Absolutely not.
She shakes her head violently, banishing the wholesome impulse.
Growth is for plants and people with stable father figures.

NO.

She wasn’t born to be responsible. She was born to be a problem.
If the universe wanted peace, it shouldn’t have let her buy in bulk.

A magical trap-negation flash fills the room. The candy is nullified. The move—denied.

Sir Bunbun lunges out the window with a double handspring and a twist so disrespectful it leaves a dent in the air itself. His fluffy feet don't even touch the ground on the second rotation—he’s operating purely on vibes and quads.

THUMP—he’s gone.
The curtain flutters gently, like it too is afraid to stop him.

Mimi drops to her knees, breathless. She’s not just exhausted—she’s existentially hollowed out. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and whispers, “You did this to yourself.”

Her hoodie had betrayed her. Her candy had failed her.
She’s surrounded by the ghosts of her bad decisions, sitting in the crater of her own overconfidence.
And in that moment, one truth echoes through the sticky silence:

She deserved this.

Mimi stomps forward, brushing glitter from her hair, fire in her eyes. She then throws herself across Maku's body, and begins shaking her like a soda can.

The mostly-asleep Maku flops her arms around, her eyes remain closed. Somehow one of her hands landed right on Mimi's butt. However, unlike a normal, reasonable, and awake person, instead of pulling her arm away quickly, Maku proceeds to squeeze.

With zero hesitation—
Maku lunges forward. Her face crashes DIRECTLY into Mimi’s chest.
And then—
Then.
She motorboats.

Maku, in her final act of villainy, lets out a tiny, dreamy whisper before drifting off completely.

A dopey smile spreads across Maku’s face.

Mimi, extremely confused, quickly swathes Maku’s hand off her.

With the force of a caffeinated stage magician, Mimi YANKS the blanket off Maku like it owes her money. It doesn't even crumple—it soars across the room in a single dramatic arc, taking Maku’s last remaining scraps of dignity with it. Maky's pajama top, already hanging on by a single button and a threadbare moral code, is gone. Her sleep shorts? Missing. Possibly in orbit. Maybe already sold on the black market.

With her body lazily stretching out, the cool air hits Maku like a slap. Her toes curl as if trying to hold onto the warmth that Mimi had personally assassinated. A moment passes and… Maku’s eyes shoot open as awareness crashes down on her.

Maku's thoughts scramble to catch up with reality, each new realization piling on top of the last: she is vulnerable, completely naked, and now very, very awake.

Maku sits up, arms crossing over her chest in a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of modesty, though it does little to shield her.

Mimi isn't listening. Her single brain cell has thrown itself off a cliff and is currently bouncing down the rocks, screaming. The visual data she just received? Too powerful. Her system has shut down everything except basic motor functions and the primal urge to stare. She topples off the bed like a defibrillated goat.

THUD.

Maku peeks over the edge—instinctively, foolishly—and immediately regrets it.
There’s Mimi.
Flat on her back. Frozen, wide-eyed, and—oh god—drooling. A strange giggle bubbles up from her throat—a high-pitched, almost alien sound that makes Maku’s embarrassment skyrocket.

Maku's eyes sweep the room in a panic-flavored blur, hunting for anything she can weaponize. Not in malice. But in desperation.

And then—salvation.
A body pillow.
Innocent. Unassuming. Fluffy.

Perfect.

Thwump.

Direct hit.
Center mass.

Mimi blinks. Innocent. Too innocent.

Mimi leans in, grinning like the devil on a sugar high.

There’s a pause. The world holds its breath.

WHUMP.
A plush missile—formerly known as a pillow—slams into Mimi’s face.
Glitter seems to puff out of nowhere—Maku’s room is inexplicably like that—and Mimi slowly lowers the pillow, revealing a grin that would look right at home on a cartoon.

Mimi's grin grows impossibly wider.

Mimi smirks.

Maku stiffens.

Maku’s indignation falters, replaced by something... muddled.

Maku's mind churns, caught off guard by the casual statement. She knows Mimi is just being Mimi—teasing, snarking, always with a wink—but still... a gift?

Her thoughts spiral further.

The idea makes Maku's stomach flip, which she immediately tries to crush with logic.

Maku's cheeks heat. Betrayal. Treason, even.
She tightens her grip on the blanket like it’s the only thing tethering her to this dimension. Like if she doesn’t hold on tight enough, she might do something unthinkable.
Like feel something.
And mean it.
No. Absolutely not.

She is not built for this.
But she can feel it happening—the warmth, the weird fluttery ache in her chest, the creeping suspicion that she might care.

Her internal systems start crashing.
>> ERROR: Unexpected Emotion Encountered.
>> Reboot? [Y/N]
>> MALFUNCTION: User is experiencing tenderness. Seek emotional backup.

This is dangerous. This is lethal. This is… wholesome.

And Maku is not equipped.

Maku’s glare snaps back into place, fortified and overly defensive.

Maku exhales a long, weary sigh, the kind that carries the weight of someone who had long since given up. Her shoulders slumps as she tilts her head back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to why she even bothered.