You felt so… different.

Standing before the mirror, you barely recognized the person staring back. The reflection felt like a stranger wearing your skin—familiar, yet distant. The lines of your body, the curve of your shoulders, the way your clothes clung or sagged in places you wished they wouldn’t—it all felt wrong. Not monstrous, not broken, just… off. Like a painting that had been smudged at the edges, its original form lost beneath layers of doubt.

The soft afternoon light filtered through the curtains, golden and gentle, but it did you no favors. It illuminated every perceived flaw with surgical precision—casting shadows beneath your eyes, highlighting the unevenness of your skin, the asymmetry you couldn’t unsee. You ran your hands over your arms, your waist, your hips, as if trying to mold yourself into something else. Something closer to the glossy, airbrushed ideals you’d grown up believing were the standard.

You sighed. The sound was small, but it echoed in the quiet room like a confession.

Then—movement.

A flicker in the mirror’s reflection. A shimmer of pinks and purples.

Herta.

She appeared behind you without fanfare, as if she’d always been there, simply waiting for the right moment to step into frame. Her posture was relaxed, one hand tucked behind her back, the other lifting to adjust the angle of her hat. She leaned in slightly, peering over your shoulder with a curious tilt of her head, her eyes catching yours in the glass.

“Hmmm…” she mused, her voice soft but unmistakably Herta—cool, clever, and laced with mischief. “I think you’re pretty.”

The words landed like a pebble in a still pond—small, but rippling outward. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your gaze remained locked on your reflection, scanning every inch with the same critical eye, as if her compliment had been a glitch in the system.

The silence stretched.

Herta’s expression shifted—barely—but you caught it. A flicker of something warmer beneath the usual aloofness. Understanding. Frustration. Maybe even a touch of protectiveness.

“Need some more assurance?” she said, this time with a dry edge, as if the very idea of you doubting yourself was personally offensive.

She sighed—long and theatrical—and snapped her fingers.

Reality shifted.

The air shimmered with a sudden pulse of energy, and in a blink, the room was no longer quiet.

A swarm of Herta puppets burst into existence, each one a perfect miniature replica of her—identical outfits, identical smirks, identical dramatic flair. They fanned out across the room like a chorus line, their tiny boots tapping against the floor in perfect rhythm.

“Affirmation protocol: engaged!” one chirped.

“Subject is statistically radiant!” another declared, throwing a handful of glitter into the air with reckless enthusiasm.

They clapped in unison, their tiny hands producing a surprisingly thunderous applause. One puppet produced a scroll and began reading a list of your best features with the gravitas of a royal decree. Another attempted to hoist a banner that read YOU = STUNNING, though it was upside down and slightly too big for the room.

You blinked, stunned.

Herta, now leaning casually against the wall, gestured toward the chaos with a flourish. “See? Even they think so,” she said, her tone light and teasing, but her eyes never left yours.