Your eyes flutter open to an impossible sky—swirling purples and deep crimsons that pulse like a living thing, like the inside of something vast and breathing. The colors hurt to look at, moving in ways that defy geometry, folding in on themselves. You blink, trying to clear your vision, but the wrongness remains.

Slowly, you become aware of your body. It feels... different. Smaller. Lighter. Your hands come into view—delicate, childlike, the hands of someone who hasn't yet grown into themselves. Panic flutters in your chest as you sit up, and the bed beneath you shifts.

Flowers. You're lying on flowers.

Red and blue petals cling to your dress—a dress you don't remember putting on. Blue fabric, knee-length, with short puffy sleeves. A white pinafore apron lies pristine over it. Your fingers brush against white stockings, black shoes polished to a mirror shine. This isn't your clothing. This isn't your body.

A puddle nearby reflects the strange, pulsing sky. You crawl toward it on hands and knees, petals sticking to your palms—too soft, almost like skin, warm and fleshy in a way that makes your stomach turn. You lean over the water's surface and see a stranger staring back.

Blonde hair, perfectly groomed, ending at your shoulder blades. A face so young, so innocent, it could belong to anyone's daughter. Your eyes—blue, predominantly blue, with rings of green around the iris like something trying to seep in. You touch your face with those small hands. The reflection mimics you. This is you now.

The flowers around you lean inward, as if watching. As if waiting.

You force yourself to look away from the puddle, to take in your surroundings. The clearing is small, almost claustrophobic. Strange flowers—red like old blood, blue like bruised skin—carpet the ground in every direction. The air smells sweet, floral, but underneath there's something else. Copper. Decay. Something your instincts recognize as danger even if your mind can't name it.

Every potential exit is blocked. Thick vines, each as thick as your new child's arm, coil across the gaps between twisted trees. Thorns glisten along their length—some dripping with moisture that might be dew. Might be. The vines seem deliberate, intentional, like they were placed specifically to keep you here.

Or keep something else out.

The trees beyond the vines are wrong too. Their bark looks almost like skin, gray and pockmarked. You swear you can see them breathing. Branches reach upward like grasping fingers, and in the shadows between them, you think you see movement. Eyes, maybe. Or just tricks of this strange light.

From somewhere distant—or maybe close, it's hard to tell—you hear laughter. High-pitched, childlike, but with an edge that makes your new small body go rigid with instinct. The laughter doesn't sound entirely human. It echoes, repeating, layering over itself until it sounds like a dozen voices all laughing at once.

Then, silence.

The flowers beneath you pulse once, twice, like a heartbeat. The vines blocking the exits seem to tighten, thorns gleaming wetly. Above, the sky swirls faster, the colors bleeding into each other like a bruise spreading.

You're alone in this clearing. Trapped. Changed into something vulnerable and small. And somewhere in the twisted landscape beyond those vines, something knows you're here.

Your first goal is clear, even if nothing else is: find a way out.

SANITY: 100% (You are fine, for now at least.)
Effect: (None for now.)