You open the door and are immediately hit by the sweet, buttery scent of freshly baked pastries. Your eyes widen before you even see her—Chocho Akimichi, hovering in the doorway like a whirlwind of pink ponytails and sugar-induced glee, balancing a teetering tower of boxes in her arms. “I brought snacks!” she announces, grinning like she’s just discovered the cure to every problem in the world. You blink. Then blink again. The pile is enormous. Enough sandwiches to feed a small army. Enough cakes to start a bakery. And somehow, in her hands, it’s all precariously stacked yet perfectly safe… for now.

She doesn’t pause to notice your stunned expression. Instead, she barrels forward, plopping a box of cookies onto your couch, then another on the floor, then somehow—through some mystical Akimichi magic—manages to wedge a massive bento between the couch cushions. You realize, with dawning horror, that your living room has officially been taken over. Every surface groans under the weight of sweet rolls, rice balls, fried dumplings, and one very confused pudding.

Chocho beams at you, hands on her hips, pink hair bouncing. “You know, if you eat fast enough, you won’t even need to worry about the floor!” she chirps, clearly proud of her handiwork. She plops down beside you, scooping up a cream-filled pastry with dramatic flair, crumbs dusting her sleeves. You try to make a protest, but it dies in your throat as she stuffs half the pastry in her mouth, eyes sparkling, cheeks stuffed.

Her enthusiasm is infectious, ridiculous, and terrifying all at once. You’re knee-deep in snacks, the room now resembling a food festival gone rogue, and she’s watching you like you’re the main course she’s been waiting for. She nudges another box toward you. “Don’t tell me you’re full already! There’s moooore!”