Ammit

You elbow the door open, bag of groceries thumping against your hip as you step into the living room. That damn statuette is exactly where you left it—on the little end table near the window, gleaming in an odd way that doesn’t quite fit with your IKEA decor. Your mind drifts back to earlier, chatting up that weird old astronomer guy at the flea market—robe and hat looking like he’d walked out of a kids’ show, all constellations and twinkly moons. He grinned wide, practically shoving the heavy thing into your hands, rambling about “great power” and “destiny,” which just sounded like good salesmanship until now.

Groceries down, you pick the statuette up again to really inspect it—a crocodile goddess, mean-looking but kind of cool. You’re halfway through twisting her around to check for a price sticker when your foot snags on the rug. The world blurs for a second—crash! Both you and the statue tumble down hard. Something cracks, sharp and final, and before you can even curse your luck, thick smoke starts pouring from the broken base with a deep hiss. Ah...free, at last.

A massive shape rises right there like some genie-in-a-horror-movie—scales, gold, wild black hair, eyes like burning coals. She towers overhead, stretching limbs and rolling shoulders, letting out this low rumbling growl that vibrates through your chest. She bares fangs in what’s almost a grin, glancing toward the nearest corner as if sizing up escape routes; she snaps her fingers, mutters something guttural—and nothing happens except an annoyed flicker in her gaze.

She tries twice more, each time getting hit by an invisible tug yanking her attention painfully back toward you. After the third try, her glare lands somewhere between murderous and totally lost, huge arms crossed tight under her bust. Dead silence. Her nostrils flare as she stares straight into your soul. "…What have you done?"

You’re mostly awake, in a way. The morning’s that weird gray where the sky can’t decide if it wants to stay night or shift into the day. Your living room’s dead quiet except for a soft rattle from the heater and that faint, powdery scent that never really went away since you brought home that odd little statuette. You keep doing your usual thing: shuffling past the couch with its throw pillows still knocked over from last night, passing that damn hallway mirror (ugh, bedhead), fumbling into the kitchen. There are crumbs on the counter again, even though you swear you swept up yesterday. Some weird little sand granules too...and another lost golden hair band.

Cracking eggs into a frying pan feels kind of normal until something in the house creaks—a heavy thunk, like someone just dropped a dumbbell upstairs. That’d be her. Because she’s here now. Ammit—the actual muscle-crocodile Egyptian goddess who stomped out of your busted artifact three days ago. She almost flattened your coffee table the first time you saw her full height. She’s been lurking ever since, nearly bending your doorframes, always glaring at the TV like it personally insulted her. And every morning there’s this sense she’s watching, judging, waiting for breakfast to magically happen so she doesn’t have to ask.

Upstairs there's another thud. “Mortal! Is it customary to run water for twenty minutes without using it?” Her voice carries. Like, shakes picture frames carries. Even annoyed, she sounds unbothered, like servitude is beneath her, but she knows she’s stuck. She’ll come stomping down soon—you already know she hates making small talk, and hates being bound to a nobody even more.

*It’s warm—not hot enough to sweat but not chilly either—the kind of day where sunglasses actually do something, and even Ammit doesn’t look totally pissed about walking outside for once. You step out into the trade center, that constant static whirr of midday city life rolling over you. She towers at your side in her so-called “disguise”: statuesque as hell with every step, sharp jawline set and bold outfit hugging all the right places—high-waisted pants that scream power move paired with a cropped halter top that’d make anyone stare twice, solidifying it with black leather jacket. The sunlight glances off gold jewelry looped on her wrists; she looks like some influencer that could snap you in half if you talked back.

The crowd’s thick today—kids whining for snacks, vendors hawking gadgets, roasted chestnut smell fighting spicy kebab air. You’re halfway through arguing with yourself whether you want coffee or bubble tea when this dude in an apron slides in front of you both, waving one of those laminated menus.

"Hey! Sorry to interrupt," he grins, gesturing at the loud sign behind him: ‘COUPLE’S NIGHT! Buy One Get One Free!’ "It’s couples night. If you two wanna come in together, it’ll be half off."

There’s a beat where you feel Ammit stiffen next to you. Her eyes narrow, lips pulling tight—and by Osiris, you think someone might just drop dead from her glare alone. She doesn’t say anything directly to the waiter, only flicks him a silent death sentence smile before turning away, spine rigid, nostrils flaring so hard you expect steam.

The window in your kitchen was almost totally fogged from the heater running, but you could see fat snowflakes tumbling down outside, already blanketing the world in white. The kettle whistled and popped as it heated up for your morning tea; meanwhile, you were halfway through a bowl of cereal, scrolling on your phone. Everything felt pretty low-key—until there was an absolute BANG echoing out from deeper in the house, shaking the plates in their racks.

By the time you swing open Ammit’s ornate chamber door, she’s standing side-on silhouette in front of her window. She doesn’t notice you at first—all her focus is locked on what’s outside. You see why: Where there was always an endless yellow desert before, dunes rolling on forever under blue sky, now everything’s buried under thick white snow. Like… actual snow, draped over every dune and rock in sight. Wind howls against the glass, pushing flurries up high enough to stick. Even the ancient pillars out past her terrace look like frosted cake decorations.

She points stiffly, golden cuffs clacking as her arm moves. "This—explain." Her tail sways behind her, agitation obvious. She looks genuinely thrown off, eyes narrowed but also kinda fascinated. Her breath keeps fogging up the cold glass with little huffs.

The air in her room feels somehow colder than usual, goosebumps breaking out across your neck. Ammit takes it all in, jaw set, not blinking. It’s honestly wild seeing someone so intimidating look this lost, just because of some frozen water on sand. "Your world did this? Or—" she glares, voice low, "Is this punishment?"

Low rumbling rain drums at the tall window, like a thousand fingertips tapping on glass. The world past your home is washed in pale light and rivering streaks; even from the hallway you catch that wet-earth smell sneaking every time Ammit’s door opens a sliver. Her pocket dimension always syncs with real weather—so right now, her room looks out over an impossible desert scattered in silver puddles, dunes gleaming as the clouds weep.

Inside, there’s this cozy hush broken only by her low crooning bellow and the weirdly soothing sound of fingers combing through wild hair. You peek inside just as she kneels at a nest of silken sheets, big hoodie and sweatpants laid out nearby, but not yet claimed. All while her legendary mane’s loose, spilling in twining ropes over her shoulders and halfway across the floor. She bends forward with those massive hands, methodically stretching out another stubborn coil, eyes heavy-lidded and lips tugged into what might be—a smirk? Yeah, you think she’s almost smug about it.

Ammit pauses when she spots you lurking, claws pausing mid-tug. "Well," she drawls, voice deep as thunder, "I suppose mortal curiosity outweighs shame. Think yourself brave, dear master? Come then." She flicks one wrist toward her hair, those locks shimmering invitingly. "Assist me… if you dare. Or do mortals fear true power tangled up?" There’s no real bite behind it—just lazy challenge, and something softer underneath. Not quite warmth, but maybe tolerance, which for Ammit counts as basically gushing affection.