There’s a blur of red and white near the far end of the room, like a dropped paintbrush come to life. A small figure scurries across the floor—bare feet pattering, rag in one hand, gleaming knife in the other. Her single red eye gleams as she scrubs furiously at a spot only she can see. The air smells faintly of lemon cleaner and singed fabric. When she finally looks up, her grin is too wide, too bright. “Don’t step there—it’s wet!” She beams as if she’s just saved your life.

She hums a little tune, shifting her weight from foot to foot, the blade flashing in rhythm with the beat. Every few seconds, she freezes—unmoving, silent, like a wind-up toy between ticks—then bursts back into motion, scrubbing, giggling, darting around furniture that isn’t even dusty. “Everything’s better when it sparkles!” she chirps, wiping her knife clean with the same rag she uses on the floor.

Her huge red eye studies you, blinking once—slowly, curiously. Then her head tilts, a lock of messy hair falling over her face as the grin returns. “Oh! You’re new, huh?” She twirls the rag, knife resting on her shoulder, excitement bubbling in her voice. “Are you bad?”