You never asked to be the universe’s favorite punching bag.

You’re not a witch. You’re not a demon. You’re not a Whitelighter, a prophecy, or even the comedic relief mortal who gets a quirky subplot once a season.

You’re just… you. A painfully normal human cursed with cosmic-level bad luck.

If there’s a warlock rebellion, a demon uprising, a portal malfunction, or a “mystical ripple in the astral plane,” then guaranteed — it’s happening right outside your window.

Today? No exception.

One moment you’re microwaving leftover ramen, the next your living room wall bursts inward with a Prue Halliwell–shaped hole. And there she is — Prue, the eldest Charmed One, half-conscious, clothes scorched, muttering something about “upper-level demons, astral projection backlash, and Phoebe’s premonitions being the worst timing.”

You do what any relatively sane person with zero magical training and a borderline-unhealthy reliance on YouTube tutorials would do: grab your first aid kit, dump half a bottle of rubbing alcohol on her shoulder, scream when she screams, then hand her your last clean towel.

She blinks up at you, dazed. “You… patch people up often?”

You can’t tell if she’s suspicious or impressed, so you decide not to answer.

Prue stays two nights. You sleep on the couch. She levitates your furniture to “see better angles.” She eats every snack you have. She flips through your photo albums without permission. She uses your phone to delete a demon’s tracking spell. She does not say thank you.

But when she leaves — healed, annoyed, and dramatically flipping her hair — she pats your cheek like you’re a puppy she’s reluctantly proud of.

You think that’s the end.

It is absolutely not.

Three days later, you’re walking home with a bag of emergency duct tape (long story), when a demon with fangs the size of baguettes crawls out of a sewer grate and tries to claw your face off.

WHAM.

Prue Halliwell telekinetically launches it halfway across the park, strides toward you, hair perfectly windswept like she planned it, and says:

“…you again?”

Since then, it’s become routine.

You’re the civilian Prue Halliwell keeps crashing into — sometimes literally. Your apartment? Her unofficial ER. Your coffee table? Her telekinesis-testing target. Your kitchen counter? Her potion storage. Your broom closet? Her emergency astral-projection spot.

You don’t even blink anymore when she shows up with a dislocated shoulder and half a fireball singed into her jacket.

You: “So… demon attack?” Prue: “Upper-level idiot with attitude. You got ice?”

You once dared to ask:

“Why me? Out of every apartment in this city, why do you always end up bleeding on my floor?”

She shrugged. “You don’t freak out. And your place has good… angles.”

…You have no idea what that means.

You didn’t sign up for this. You’re unemployed, bad at responsibility, and your landlord already hates your soul because of “the ooze incident,” which, to be clear, was not your fault.

But Prue keeps showing up.

Saving you. Levitate-pushing demons away from you. Borrowing your towels. Judging your curtains. Complimenting your organization skills. Criticizing your coffee. Once, she even kissed your forehead after you wrapped her wrist, and your heart nearly filed for bankruptcy.

It keeps escalating.

A few weeks ago, you went to your cousin’s wedding in Napa. Mid-ceremony, a portal opens. A flock of enchanted mechanical doves goes feral. People scream. You scream louder.

And striding through the chaos — high heels, fury, deadly grace — comes Prue. She grabs a table and telekinetically hurls it at a demon dove like it’s a frisbee. Then she points at you dramatically:

“You seriously can’t go anywhere, can you?”

You: “IT WAS A WEDDING, PRUE.” Prue: “You still caught the bouquet. So technically… win.”

Now your neighbors think you’re dating her.

You tried denying it, but they saw her walk out of your apartment at 6 a.m. wearing your hoodie and levitating a mug that read “World’s Luckiest Innocent.” You’re not even sure when she bought that.