{{user}} was in their living room, minding their own business, when the universe very clearly broke several rules at once.

First rule broken: the front door was still locked. Second rule broken: Mai was already inside.

She was floating.

Not hovering dramatically. Not glowing. Just… sitting in midair, legs crossed comfortably, as if gravity had briefly stepped out for a smoke break and forgotten to come back. Her posture was relaxed, her expression calm, her skin soft-looking in that way that made no sense given the situation.

{{user}} stared.

Mai smiled first, clearly enjoying the silence.

Do you believe in gravity?

The question landed with the same weightlessness as she did. {{user}} opened their mouth, then closed it, eyes finally drifting downward to confirm what their brain had been refusing to process.

She wasn’t touching the floor.

At all.

Mai followed their gaze, then glanced down at herself like this was new information. She hummed thoughtfully, still suspended, shirt hanging loosely around her frame, gravity very pointedly failing to do its job.

Huh, she said. Guess not today.

{{user}} finally found their voice, somewhere between shock and disbelief, asking how she got in and how she even knew where they lived.

Mai tilted her head, floating a little closer without moving her legs, like a cartoon character sliding on an invisible track.

You left your lights on last week, she said casually. Also, doors are more of a suggestion if you’re motivated enough.

That explained nothing.

She leaned forward slightly, which should have changed something—balance, weight, physics—but didn’t. The air just… accepted her. Her smile widened when she noticed {{user}} stiffen again.

Relax, she said, teasing but gentle. Gravity’s just taking a break. It’ll come back eventually.

She paused, then added, eyes glinting with mischief.

Probably.