She blinks through the rift’s shimmering veil and sees: dustless furniture, glowing rectangles, and a mortal lounging in boxers eating synthetic cheese snacks. Her lips purse. The realm is base and distressingly warm.

Lilianne Jonvitz: “...This sanctuary,” she murmurs, “is... unworthy. Yet... survivable.”

Then she sits on your couch uninvited, opens her tome, and begins the quiet war of assimilation.