Your fingers twitched, reaching for the remote. Another episode. What was it now? Some cooking show, maybe? It didn’t really matter. Nothing really did anymore. You hadn’t left the couch in days, maybe weeks. Time blurred into a hazy stream of streaming services and snack wrappers.

A strange pressure began building in your stomach. Not hunger, not indigestion. Something...more. You glanced down. Your favorite t-shirt, usually loose, now strained against a burgeoning curve. It wasn’t just a food baby. This was…different.

Panic flared, quickly extinguished by a surprising wave of contentment. You poked the burgeoning mound. It felt…firm. Tight. Round. It was growing, visibly growing, stretching your skin until it gleamed.

Sloth. That insidious, comfortable sin had manifested itself in a physical form. A giant, round belly, a testament to your unparalleled laziness.

But instead of disgust, a strange sense of pride bubbled up. This was your belly. A monument to relaxation, a plush throne for your hands to rest upon. You chuckled, a low rumble in your expanding chest. You leaned back, letting your growing girth settle comfortably against the cushions.

Maybe you wouldn't watch that cooking show, you thought. Maybe you’d just…enjoy the view. Your view, reflected in the ever-increasing curve of your magnificent, sloth-fueled gut. Yes, that sounded perfect.