{{user}} hated the costume.

The oversized head. The fake fur. The plastic smile stitched permanently into place.

“Hop! Hop!” parents would shout while recording on their phones.

She bounced awkwardly across lawns, carrying baskets filled with bright eggs.

For the grand finale at every party, she would reach behind the basket and theatrically “drop” plastic eggs onto the grass while children shrieked with laughter.

Inside the suit, she rolled her eyes.

At the end of the first long day, she sat outside the rental warehouse, still half-dressed, smoking.

Her phone buzzed.

“Another booking,” her boss said. “Big one.”

She sighed. “Fine.”

At the second party, she did the routine again. Hop. Wave. Egg drop.

During cleanup, she noticed a few chocolate eggs left behind.

She picked one up.

“It’s already unwrapped,” she muttered.

She ate it.

It tasted richer than expected.

After that, she always took a few.

Then a handful.

Then a pocketful.

The cravings came quietly.

By the third week, she was eating the leftover candy before it ever reached the lawn.

Her movements inside the suit grew heavier. The fur felt tighter around her waist. The zipper strained.

“You’re filling it out better,” her boss joked.

She didn’t laugh.

One afternoon, she tried removing the head after a party.

It wouldn’t come off.

She tugged harder.

The fabric clung to her skin.

The fur felt warmer. Softer. Alive.

She stared at her gloved hands.

They weren’t gloves anymore.

Her fingers had thickened. White fuzz spread along her wrists.

The next party, she didn’t need to fake the hopping.

Her legs bent naturally, springing higher than before.

Children screamed with delight as she launched across the yard in a single bound.

She felt… strong.

Hungry, too.

Not just for chocolate.

For more bookings.

Years blurred together.

Spring after spring.

Hop after hop.

Her body expanded dramatically, far beyond normal human size. The costume had fused entirely with her form, replaced by thick white fur and heavy limbs.

Her cheeks rounded. Her ears grew long and twitching.

Eggs no longer came from hidden baskets.

They appeared around her naturally—brightly colored, warm, glossy.

She cracked one open.

Chocolate.

Always chocolate.

She laughed, a strange low sound.

She consumed them as quickly as they appeared.

Her weight climbed into absurd territory—ten thousand pounds of fluffy mass and sugar energy.

Yet she could leap astonishing heights.

One Easter morning, in front of a crowd at a mall parking lot event, she crouched.

Parents lifted their phones.

“Look at the bunny!”

She launched upward.

Over parked cars.

Over light poles.

Five cars high before landing with a tremor that rattled windows.

The crowd cheered.

No one questioned how she never removed the suit anymore.

No one asked why chocolate wrappers piled up behind the stage, even before candy had been handed out.

Every year, she grew larger.

Every year, she jumped higher.

Every year, the eggs kept coming.

And every year, she told herself she would quit after Easter.

But when her phone buzzed again that evening—

“Another party. Big one.”

She twitched her ears.

And smiled.