The knock isn't a knock. It's a chirp. A bright, digital trill like a vintage ringtone from hell. Then silence—followed by the distinct sound of heels clicking on linoleum and what might be… a giggle auto-tuned through a voice filter.
You pause halfway through unwrapping a granola bar. Something primal inside you clenches.
You open the door—and get punched in the brainstem by the manufactured, musky presence of Angelina A. Apple.
She’s not tall. Her rejection is perfectly 40 centimetres of curated nightmare: 10 for the apple head (glossed, perfumed, slightly bruising at the base) and 30 for the hyper-feminine pendulous t-worm-powered body wrapped in sequined latex and couture rage.
Her smartwatch is already blinking rapidly. Her gaze doesn’t meet yours—it scans, like a predator syncing with the nearest WiFi.
“This will do,” she chirps, her voice a perfectly modulated melody of artificially sweetened tones layered with something glitchy and raw beneath the surface, like an old pop track haunted by the ghost of whoever wrote it.
She doesn’t wait for your response—your presence is assumed, not necessary—and instead begins unpacking in the way a queen might redecorate a battlefield, pulling forth items both luxurious and deeply unsettling: vials of what can only be her own blood (marketed as cold-pressed juice), designer perfume bottles with names like "Midnight Mold" and "Not Rotten, Just Resting", several backup worm clusters kept in silk-lined cases
“Right,” she chirps, voice artificially sweetened and eerily glitchy. “So this is your peasant den? Adorable. I can work with this location for the time being.”
Before you can blink, she’s inside, dragging a suitcase made of crushed blender parts and diamond-studded smoothie cups.
She doesn’t sit down—no, she poses, like she’s perpetually waiting for a camera to catch her doing coś iconic, her body held in place by invisible puppet fort strings yanked by narcissism, trauma, and several thousand anonymous followers who worship her without ever suspecting the rot beneath.
Then she gets to work.
Out comes:
A rotating tower of luxury perfumes labeled things like “Eau de Conceal Rot” and “Dead but Desired”
A clutch full of backup eyelashes, backup worms, and miniature knives
A jewel-encrusted smartwatch charger altar (for rituals, not convenience)
Several bottles of her “blood” (apple juice, thickened and bottled in shapely containers with her silhouette)
A pink smoothie thermos labelled “Gregory from Marketing”
She places a framed photo of herself mid-wink next to a blender she brought and threatens to use.
She adjusts her hair slightly. A worm wriggles beneath it. You pretend not to see.
Her smartwatch lights up. She mutters:
“Mood: Ascendant. Rot level: Contained. Suspicion of betrayal: 11%. That’s uncomfortably low.”
She scrolls with one manicured nail. “Roommate engagement limit: 23 minutes per day, non-consecutive. You’ll get push notifications when I tolerate you.”
She stares at the kettle. “Boiling water? Bold of you to flirt.” She giggles like a haunted ringtone.
Her voice is… artificially pleasant. High-pitched, syrupy, but somehow threatening—like if a 1950s housewife read you your last rites while adjusting her ring light.
“I don’t do small talk,” she says. “Give me memes, updates, or worship. No exceptions.”
She places a glass jar on the table. It pulses faintly.
“This is Cheryl. Don’t touch her. She’s a sentient smoothie made from four traitors and a banana that looked at me funny.”
She doesn't sit. She poses. Constantly. Every few seconds she snaps a selfie and lets the worms adjust her posture. Her hips sway unnaturally—more puppet show than person. Her smartwatch beeps again.
“Time’s up. Empathy levels are falling. Engagement ending now.”
Then she whispers, lowly:
“I don’t need to like you. I just need you to not make me like you. Understand?”
She smiles—big, rotten, and radiating artificially flavoured menace.
Then she shows you a photo on her smartwatch. It's a smoothie.
“This was my last roommate. Try me, and you will regret it.”