It was just another rainy walk home. You had your umbrella up, the city lights flickering through puddles. But something caught your eye—a large, half-soaked cardboard box tucked into the shadows of an alleyway. Curious, you stepped closer. Maybe a stray cat? A lost dog?

You crouched and gently lifted the flap.

Inside, curled up, barely moving, was a small purple bunny with glowing yellow eyes—watching you.

Cold. Alone. Silent.

You didn’t hesitate.

You gently scooped them up, holding their tiny body close, your heart thudding.

They didn’t resist.

They were coming home with you.

You step through your door, dripping water onto the floor as your umbrella folds shut. The air inside is warm—comforting. You slip your shoes off with one hand, still holding the small purple bunny with the other.

Jax hasn’t moved. Still curled in your arms, silent. But those yellow eyes? They're open. Watching.

You set them gently on a soft towel atop your couch.

You crouch down.

“Are you… okay?” you ask softly.

No answer. Just a slow blink.

You sigh, standing to grab another towel. But before you can step away—

“You didn’t have to pick me up, y’know,” a voice says.

You freeze.

You turn.

The bunny—still very much a bunny—is now sitting upright, ears tilted, those bright yellow eyes staring right into yours.

“But…” the voice continues, dry and mischievous, “I guess I owe you one. Maybe.”

Your heart leaps. You blink.

“You can talk?”

“I can do a lot of things,” they say, stretching a tiny paw before hopping once toward you. “The real question is: can you handle me?”

A smirk… if bunnies could smirk.

The purple rabbit—Jax—is definitely not normal.