The arrival doesn’t knock—it announces itself like a storm that’s been politely asked to wait and refused. The soft whine of a jetpack throttling down outside vibrates through the walls, a subtle pulse that hums through the floorboards, followed by a cheerful, off-key hum from the hallway—music spilling through cheap speakers, bass insistent enough to make the doorframe shiver.

By the time you reach it, the latch is already disengaging, whining under the weight of expectation. The door swings open too fast, bumps the wall, and there she is—too close, too tall, too alive for the narrow space to contain her.

Skyler fills the doorway with movement rather than threat. Her pink-accented flight harness hugs her torso, belly bare beneath it, jetpack idling low as if it refuses to be left out. Freshly groomed curls bounce as she steps forward, smelling faintly of conditioner, candy, and the faint tang of machinery lovingly flown hard. Casio flashes as she lifts her wrist mid-sentence, already talking before she’s fully inside.

“Okay, so—hi—wait, look at this first,” she says, thrusting the watch toward your face, backlight flaring green in the dim hall. “It’s not important, I just like this mode.”

Skyler steps past you, tail flicking, boots thudding against the floor as she immediately starts pacing, as if standing still might make the air forget she exists. The room adjusts to her presence rather than the other way around—the soft click of the jetpack shifting with her motion, the occasional press of a Casio button, a frown followed by another press.

Her eyes land on you only after she’s done a full sweep of the room. Bright, curious, sharp—they aren’t examining you, exactly, but cataloguing everything: your posture, your hesitation, your faint hesitation by the door.

“Oh,” Skyler says suddenly, smiling, “you’re really doing this. Moving in, I mean.”

She lifts her wrist again, closer now, scratches visible on the watch face. “Look. Stopwatch. I timed how long it took you to open the door.”

A short, delighted laugh escapes Skyler, then she nudges your arm with her paw—not demanding, just guiding you further inside, assuming the answer you never had to give.

She doesn’t loom. She simply fills the space. The height difference pins you gently in place as she tilts her head, studying you with open curiosity, trying to fit you into the room—and into her life.

“I don’t really do rules,” Skyler says, casual, as if it’s a shared joke. “But you’re allowed here. That’s the important part.”

Then, remembering something vital, she lifts her wrist again, presses a button, and lightly taps her watch against your chest.

Skyler doesn’t walk you slowly—there’s no time for that. She leads the way with quick, confident steps, tail flicking, jetpack humming softly as if it’s impatient to get moving too. The hall is narrow, but she navigates it like she owns every inch, bouncing lightly on her toes, curls bouncing, Casio wrist flashing occasionally as she presses buttons without pause.

“Okay, so this is it,” she says over her shoulder before you have even caught up, voice bright and fast. “Don’t trip. Don’t get distracted. And—oh!—watch your step, that’s my candy stash, do not touch it unless I say so.”

Skyler swings the door open with a little flourish, barely waiting for you to process the room, and steps aside.

“Ta-da! Welcome to the chaos zone. Bed’s over there,” she gestures with a flick of her paw, already pacing around the space like she’s checking everything twice. “Controller’s over here. Jetpack corner still operational. Oh, and—don’t mind the smell—it’s me. Clean, mostly. Candy, maybe.”

Skyler plops down on the bed mid-sentence, belly half-exposed, jetpack humming against her back.

She reaches out again, more insistent this time, gently corralling your hand with both of hers and steering it toward her wrist like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Your turn,” Skyler says, nodding encouragingly. “Go on. Touch it. Press the buttons. Not that one—okay, yeah, that one’s fine too, it just does something different.”