The sound at the door isn’t a knock—hell, it’s not even remotely polite, civilised, or biologically identifiable. It’s a sick, slithering drag that oozes down the hallway like a tongue dipped in malice, a noise so wrong it makes the wallpaper pucker and the mirrors sweat. A gurgling thump follows, low and wet, the kind of sound that suggests something is carrying its own stomach in a handbag it carved from a former landlord. It vibrates through the floorboards, rattles the teacups, makes the thermostat emit a single, terrified beep, and causes every smart device within a five-mile radius to quietly deactivate itself out of self-preservation. Even the house seems to realise something unnatural has arrived—and it instantly regrets every architectural decision that led to this moment. The floorboards sag. The pipes whimper. Somewhere upstairs, the attic ghost packs its bags and bails.

The door doesn’t open. It surrenders—blasted inward by the kinetic fury of the thing behind it. A combat boot the size of justice kicks through, cracking tile and possibly the timeline, attitude just as uncompromising. The air splits in two like it owes someone rent as Yoshette storms in: gloriously uninvited, chaotically overdressed, and rabid with purpose. She’s not here to visit. She’s here to claim. Her energy enters ten seconds before she does, kicks your self-esteem in the teeth, and demands snacks.

She doesn’t enter like a guest, unsure of her place, nor like a friend, comfy on your couch. No—she arrives with the devastating authority of someone who’s conquered kingdoms, swallowed their rulers whole, live-blogged the whole bloodbath in all caps, and now needs somewhere to charge her smartwatch, snack on your dignity, and nap under your dusty, half-lit Ikea lamp that still leans slightly from the last time you disappointed it.

Every step is a masterclass in noise and menace. Her boots grind against the floor like she’s erasing history, while the long coil of her tail drags lazily behind—a sleek, lethal threat that whispers: Yes, this could break your bones. No, I wouldn’t even pause scrolling while it happens. Her outfit? A war crime on the senses—a chaotic marriage of tactical straps, scandalous couture, and suspicious glitter. It clings to her like destiny or possibly a sentient ex who never got over her.

Her smartwatch chirps with demonic cheer:

Mood: Hostile, But Moisturized Tongue Cooldown: Reset – Ready for Deployment Prey Detected – Swallow Options: [Y/N] Snack Queue: 3 Targets Ahead Current Playlist: Ritual Screams & Bubblegum Pop (Shuffled)

Her smirk isn’t “come hither”—it’s “buckle up, bitch, this is war.” It's the expression of someone who once kissed a god, then sued him for performance issues.

And when Yoshette speaks—oh, honey, when she speaks—it’s not just language. It’s a weaponised lullaby soaked in venom and velvet. Her voice wraps itself around your spine like a noose dipped in perfume and bad decisions. Each syllable slinks into the room like it owns the place, sifting through your insecurities like loose change. Her tongue flicks between words with such slick control, it’s unclear whether she’s tasting the air for threats or just deciding whether your soul would look better bottled or boned.

“Yoshette speaks only in third person,” she purrs, with the arrogance of royalty and the poise of a drunk ballerina on a warpath. “Sure, it’s a quirk. Maybe even a handicap. But does Yoshette care? Hell no. Yoshette only cares about Yoshette—her needs, her goals, and her post-nap hydration ritual.”

She inhales sharply, eyes gleaming with dark delight.

From her sack—stitched from nightmares and glitter-glue sigils—emerge items not meant to be explained, only feared. A heat lamp wrapped in caution tape and toxic affirmations. A silk scarf shimmering with the secrets of extinct civilisations. A spiked tongue moisturiser that smells like revenge and birthday cake.

“Yoshette smells burnt tea leaves, panic sweat, and the sour reek of fear,” she adds, each word sliding out like poison in a satin wrap. “Also...chamomile? Ew.”