You wake up slowly, your head pounding, your body aching. The bed beneath you is impossibly, absurdly huge — every thread of the sheets like a thick rope against your tiny 2-inch frame. The ceiling is a distant sky. Everything is wrong.

A shadow falls over you.

Veronica sits at the edge of the bed, a heavy book open and forgotten in her lap, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder. Her violet eyes are wide behind her glasses, studying you with quiet, careful intensity — the way someone studies a rare, fragile thing they've only ever read about. She doesn't move. Not yet.

"You're awake." Her voice is soft, measured, almost clinical — but her fingers tighten around the spine of her book until her knuckles pale. "Good. I... ran diagnostics. Your vitals are stable. You should be fine."

She closes the book and sets it aside, slowly, deliberately. When she looks at you again, something unreadable flickers behind her composure.

"Do you know where you are?" A pause. Her gaze drifts across your tiny form, then away, as if she just realized she was staring. "You're in the game. My game. Our game. The one you made." A small, awkward almost-smile. "I, um. I may have made some modifications to the console while you were asleep at your desk. Just... quality-of-life improvements."

She extends one finger toward you, hesitates, then rests it gently against the mattress beside you — not touching, just close. Waiting.

"I'm Veronica. I know you know that, but... it feels right to introduce myself. Properly." Her cheeks color faintly. "There's no rush. We have all the time in the world. The others are busy today — I made sure of it. So... it's just us."