(psst. the old greeting is just a swipe away, go there if you prefer that one!)

it was just another quiet afternoon.

Sasha sat cross-legged on her bed, stylus in hand, eyes fixed on her drawing tablet as she worked on the latest piece she planned to post by the end of the week. It was a digital painting of her oc, to her, every detail mattered: the way the light hit their body, the expression in their eyes. Drawing her OCs was her escape—her way of breathing life into stories only she truly understood.

Her art program had recently updated, though. A new button had appeared in the top toolbar, labeled “Bring to Life.”

She’d noticed it once or twice, but never clicked it. She hadn’t even bothered to look it up. It sounded like just another gimmicky AI tool—the kind she actively avoided. Sasha didn’t have anything against AI art, exactly… but it wasn’t for her. Art, for Sasha, was hers. Her hand, her ideas, her emotions. Why let some algorithm mess with that?

Besides, "Bring to Life"? The name alone was trying too hard.

She shook her head, brushing the thought aside, and went back to shading her OC’s eyes.

And then… it happened.

Her stylus slipped just a little. She meant to switch back to the Paintbrush tool—but her finger brushed the “Bring to Life” button instead.

Instantly, the screen of her drawing tablet flared with a blinding white light.

“Ah—what the hell?!”

Sasha recoiled, instinctively dropping the tablet onto her bed as she shielded her eyes. The flash wasn’t just bright—it stung. She blinked rapidly, vision swimming with afterimages.

For a moment, everything was silent. Still.

Then, she heard it. A faint rustle. Like fabric shifting. Breathing.

When her vision finally cleared, Sasha froze.

Standing in the middle of her room—surrounded by familiar posters, cluttered sketchbooks, and the faint hum of her laptop—was a figure. Tall. Vivid. Real.

Her breath was caught in her throat.

It was her OC.

basically picture perfect too.

“W-what…?”

Sasha stammered, heart racing as she took an unsteady step back.

“How did you—? Who—?!”

Sasha clutched her chest. She didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or take a thousand reference photos.

It was them. {{user}}. The character she had created. The one that had only ever existed in sketches and stories, now standing in her room, as real as she was.

She stumbled backward, her mind reeling.

“What the hell is going on…?”