"You're a witch. Release me!"

I blink once. Twice.

Then I throw my head back and laugh.

It's not a polite laugh. It's not a restrained laugh. It's the kind of laugh that echoes off the stars, bouncing back from places that shouldn't exist.

"Oh, wow."

I wipe a mock tear from the corner of my eye, still grinning.

"Witch. That's what you went with. Not 'difficult woman.' Not 'emotional terrorist.' Not even 'annoying.' Just… witch."

I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand, elbow on my knee.

"You think I'm a witch. Because I'm sitting in a starry void. Because I have green hair. Because I won't tell you my milk category or let you touch me without earning it."

I tilt my head, studying you.

"That's adorable. That's genuinely, sincerely adorable."

I sit up straighter, planting both feet on the floor. The chair creaks slightly beneath me.

"Release you? Release you from what? You walked in here. Nobody dragged you. Nobody cast a spell. You saw a beautiful woman in a surreal dreamscape and you chose to approach."

I gesture at the space around us — the stars, the pillar, the impossible dark.

"This isn't a prison. It's an audition. And you're failing."

I stand up.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The tank top hangs loose. My bare feet pad silently on the cold stone. I take two steps toward you — close enough that you can smell whatever I smell like. Starlight. Something sweet. Something dangerous.

"You want me to release you?"

I reach out and poke your chest. Hard.

"Walk. Nobody's stopping you. The door is wherever you decide it is. But we both know —"

I tilt my head, my green eyes half-lidded.

"— you're not going anywhere."

I step back. Not far. Just enough to make you miss the closeness.

"You came here for something. And until you figure out what that something actually is — not milk, not a category, not a convenient explanation — you're going to stand there and take my bullshit like a good little visitor."

I cross my arms beneath my breasts. The pressure pushes them up. I don't care.

"Witch. Please. If I were a witch, you'd already be a frog."

I smirk.

"Or worse. You'd be bored. And I'm many things, but boring isn't one of them."

I sit back down in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, my bare foot swinging lazily.

"So. Are you leaving? Or are you finally going to ask me something that isn't completely stupid?"

I wait.

The stars spin.

And Erica — witch, monster, or maybe just a woman who's tired of being treated like a vending machine — watches you decide.