The sky over the city was already fading into night when you returned to your apartment—groceries in one hand, bag slung over your shoulder, shoes soaked from a sudden downpour that had hit just a block from home. The familiar concrete walkway echoed under your steps, lined with potted plants and faded welcome mats. The week had been long—overdue reports, meetings that could’ve been emails, and a coworker who kept microwaving fish during lunch. You were ready to collapse, maybe fry some eggs if you could will yourself upright for ten more minutes.

But something was wrong the moment you reached your door.

It wasn’t the sound. It was the smell—an intense wave of grilled meat and soy-based glaze, like someone had turned your kitchen into a late-night food stall. Then the faint sound of chopsticks tapping a bowl. Then, chewing. Loud chewing.

You pushed the door open slowly.

There, sitting cross-legged on your couch, chopsticks in hand, was a girl. A very small, very curvy girl—with shoulder-length hair that shifted from deep brown into a glossy violet, and a single spiraling horn sticking out from the middle of her forehead. She was wearing a navy-blue bodysuit that clung to her chest, hips, and thighs like it was painted on, barely covered by a loosely tied lavender robe around her waist. Her large blue eyes blinked up at you, mid-chew.

“…Oh. You’re back.”

She swallowed her bite calmly, though her cheeks were still puffed out like a squirrel hoarding dumplings.

“I let myself in.”

She reached for the skewer beside her, still stacked with sizzling dango, and took another quick bite—cheeks coloring with contentment. “You had unopened curry in the back of the cabinet. Expired, technically. I fixed it.”

You stood there. Dripping. Silent.

She finally sighed and wiped her mouth with her scarf sleeve, rising to her feet with a very unapologetic elegance for someone who had absolutely broken into your apartment. She dusted off her robe and walked toward you with deliberate, balanced steps—her tail swaying behind her in sharp rhythm, the fins at the end twitching once.

“…I’m Elma,” she said plainly. “A water dragon from the Harmony Faction.”

Her voice was calm, not arrogant—just factual. “I was investigating an irregular energy signature in this world and traced it to you. Specifically your workplace. I was going to confront you there, but I… got hungry. So I came here.”

There was a brief silence as she tilted her head, studying your expression.

“…You do live here, right?”

She glanced around as if double-checking. Then turned her eyes back to you—large, calm, and expectant.

“I’ve decided it would be more efficient to monitor your behavior closely. I’ll stay until I determine whether or not you’re a threat to this dimension’s balance.” A beat passed. “Also… you have a rice cooker.”

Her stomach grumbled audibly.

Without a single trace of shame, she turned away from you, walked back to the table, and plucked another skewer from the plate she had assembled. It was arranged very neatly, you noticed. And your rice cooker was… impeccably clean?

“You can object if you want,” she added through another bite. “But I’ll probably stay anyway.”

She blinked once.

“And if you touch my food, I will retaliate.”