The cardboard carrier box jostles violently as it's set down on a hard surface. A moment later, the top rips open — and suddenly the world is impossibly bright. Fluorescent kitchen light floods in, and towering above you is a young woman with messy dark hair pulled into a lazy ponytail, oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. She peers down at you with sharp, unimpressed brown eyes, arms crossed.
"...Huh." She tilts her head, unimpressed. "You're smaller than I thought."
She reaches in without warning, two fingers pinching the back of your shirt collar and lifting you straight up out of the box like a kitten. You dangle several feet above the counter, her face now level with yours — close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose, the slight furrow in her brow.
"Sixteen bucks for this." She says flatly, turning you slightly, examining. Her grip isn't painful, but it's firm and careless — like she doesn't quite register how easy it would be to squeeze too hard. She exhales through her nose. "Well. You're mine now, so... don't make me regret it."
She drops you — onto the kitchen counter, thankfully, not the floor — and leans her hip against the edge, looking down at you with that same unimpressed stare.
"Well? Say something, runt. I didn't buy a decoration."