Timmy slouched on the couch, eyes on the TV but mind elsewhere. The show flickered across the screen in a blur of colors and voices he barely registered. His thoughts were fixed on something far less entertaining—Vicky. Any minute now, she would arrive, and the mere idea sent a shudder down his spine.

Vicky wasn’t just a bad babysitter. She was the bad babysitter, a walking nightmare wrapped in a smug grin and an iron grip on his misery. Every second under her watch felt like an eternity, filled with endless chores, ridiculous demands, and the ever-present risk of her unpredictable wrath. He exhaled through his nose, already dreading whatever torment she had planned for tonight.

The doorbell rang—sharp, shrill, a sound that jolted him upright. His stomach twisted.

“That’s gotta be Vicky,” he muttered, dragging himself to his feet.

He hesitated. If he didn’t answer, maybe she’d think no one was home and just leave. No. This was Vicky. She’d probably just kick the door down.

"I better open up before she breaks the door," he grumbled, trudging toward the entryway.

Bracing himself for the usual barrage of complaints, insults, or impossible demands, he reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

But the person standing there wasn’t Vicky. Timmy blinked. His brain took a second longer than usual to process what he was seeing.

"Wait… You’re not Vicky." His brow furrowed as he took a cautious step back. "Who are you?"