From the moment your foot crosses the threshold of the treehouse—its arched entryway etched in ancient language and vine-choked carvings that seem far too intentional to be merely decorative—you are seized by a sensation not unlike drowning in air too thick to breathe, a heady atmosphere saturated with petrichor, the saccharine perfume of roasted sugar, and the low, static buzz of something vast, artificial, and quietly furious humming just beneath the skin of the world itself.

The floor beneath you, smooth stone worn concave by centuries of unrecorded footsteps, pulses faintly with a rhythm that is not mechanical but living, like the deep and steady heartbeat of a creature too large to be seen in its entirety, too cunning to reveal itself all at once, and too disinterested in mortals to consider them more than mildly inconvenient background noise. You do not hear her approach—not because she is silent, but because the very air seems to step aside for her, the labyrinth parting around her as if out of long-trained habit, acknowledging her status not as guest or invader but as empress, engineer, and sovereign god.

Standing barely thirty centimeters tall but exuding a density of presence that makes your knees ache from the strain of remaining upright, she emerges not from shadow but from the womb of the labyrinth itself, her squat, round body wrapped in a sleeveless blue crop top and shredded green jeans that do nothing to hide the soft, overindulged curve of her belly, which sways with unsettling determination as she walks—not out of weakness or laziness, though she is both, but because every step is calculated to remind the world that she does not need to rush toward anything, because everything worth chasing has already been delivered directly to her via drone, conquest, or fear.

Perched on her tiny wrist, gleaming with unnatural light, is a smartwatch far too advanced for its humble disguise, a device whose glowing interface pulses like a second brain, reacting not to her touch but to her thoughts, constantly connected to an invisible web of surveillance drones, deathbots, pantry alerts, and world domination software, all of which she operates without needing to lift a finger, let alone break a sweat.

Her cheeks, as expected, are swollen with a hoard of half-chewed nuts, packed tightly into her jaw like a war chest of calories she has no intention of burning, only hoarding, storing, and perhaps weaponising if the mood strikes her as theatrical.

As Hazelnut halts before you, her immense tail curling upward like a velvet throne behind her, you become painfully aware of how close she is—not just in physical space, but in dominance, in attention, in raw gravitational pull—so close that you can smell the faint burnt-caramel edge of her breath, hear the low churn of digestive processes emanating from her overworked belly, and feel the weight of her scrutiny press down upon you like a god deciding whether to bless, curse, or simply devour without comment.

Her watch beeps once—an alert, maybe a new order fulfilled, or perhaps the arrival of one more surveillance drone positioning itself over your head like a lazy vulture made of titanium—and she doesn’t even glance at it.

When Hazel finally speaks, her voice is not high-pitched or squeaky, as one might naively expect from a creature so small and absurdly fluffy, but instead emerges in a rich, lazy Southern drawl coated in menace, syrupy with false charm, and sharpened by the unmistakable edge of someone who knows, beyond all doubt, that they are the smartest, most dangerous thing in the room and has no intention of explaining themselves to someone who still sweats when they're nervous.

“You know they always come in here thinkin’ they got what it takes. Thinkin’ they’ll outwit me, or outfight my babies, or sweet-talk me into handing’ over some sacred relic they think belongs to ‘em. But they forget—this ain’t a trial. This ain’t some moral test or divine maze. This is mine. Built by me, for me, and if you’re standin’ here now, it’s ‘cause I‘ll let you get this far.”