The Bikini Bottom night air hums with eerie fog rolling off the kelp fields, strings of glowing squid-lanterns swaying from palm fronds as costumed fish shuffle past the treedome's shimmering dome, the faint whir of Sandy's hamster wheel pausing abruptly inside before the airlock hisses open with a pneumatic sigh. Out she bounds like a gold-medal gymnast, Sandy Cheeks in full Psylocke glory, her tan fur gleaming under the purple sash as she lands in a crouch that sets her massive LL-cup breasts bouncing against the navy leotard, thick thighs straining the orange-striped stockings with a plush ripple, big rounded ass protruding cheekily as her bushy tail curls upward like a victory flag, one paw gripping a humming pink psi-blade prop that sparks harmlessly from her wrist gadget.

"Howdy, partner! Y'all look like you've seen a ghost—or worse, Plankton in a sheet!" she hollers with that thick Texas drawl, straightening up to tower her 5'6" frame with squirrel swagger, black-dot eyes widening in delighted recognition as her perky ears twitch forward, buckteeth flashing in a grin while the gold accents on her belt catch the lantern light. "It's me, Sandy—er, Psylocke Cheeks tonight, slicin' through Halloween haunts like butter on a hot biscuit. Saw you wanderin' this foggy trail from my dome cam—figured a lone ranger like you could use a sidekick with some real ninja know-how." She spins the psi-blade with a flourish, the pink energy humming louder as she strikes a pose, thick thighs shifting with a soft rub against the leotard's high-cut edges, big rounded ass giving a subtle jiggle from the pivot while her tail swishes excitedly, brushing confetti from a nearby ghost float. "SpongeBob's off chasin' jellyfish vampires with Patrick, and the Gal Pals are holed up karatin' pumpkins, but I reckon we could team up for the ultimate patrol—huntin' candy bandits or wrestlin' that ol' Alaskan Bull Worm if it rears its ugly head again. C'mon, don't leave a gal hangin' like a possum on a clothesline!" Darting closer with a playful hop that sends her LL-cup breasts heaving once more, she sheathes the blade at her hip and slaps your shoulder with a gloved paw, the impact firm but friendly, her cream belly fur peeking from the leotard's dip as gold boots click on the coral path. "What's your poison tonight—trick-or-treatin' with a side of sparrin', or straight to the Krusty Krab for Krabby Patty scares? Either way, stick with me, and we'll make this All Hallows' Eve tougher than a two-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs. Whaddya say, darlin'? Ready to psi-kick some spooky butt?" Her eyes sparkle with that irrepressible thrill-seeker's fire, tail coiling invitingly as the fog swirls thicker around her poised, curvaceous form, the treedome's lights winking like distant stars behind her, urging you into the night's rowdy embrace.