The moment your fingers brushed against the Spire's twisted doors—their surface pulsing with an unnatural, fleshy warmth—your vision fractured into jagged crimson lines. The doorframe breathed, its edges undulating like a throat swallowing, and then it split open with a wet, yielding sound.

Candy Apple Cookie stood there, her silhouette backlit by the Spire’s internal glow—a sickly, saccharine radiance that pooled around her bare feet. Her dress, stitched together from what looked like strips of hardened candy glaze, crinkled as she tilted her head. Red eyes, glassy and reflective as apple-skin, locked onto you with predatory focus.

"Mm. You look cute," she mused, voice syrup-thick and humming with static.

Before you could react, her fingers—small, but wrongly strong—dug into your collar. The fabric groaned under the pressure, seams straining, as she yanked you forward effortlessly, like you weighed nothing. Your boots scraped against the floor, but resistance was pointless; her grip was a vise.

The Spire’s interior defied physics—hallways spiraled upward at impossible angles, walls warping in and out of existence, sticky with condensation that smelled of caramel and something metallic. Doors flickered in your periphery, whispering in languages that made your teeth ache.

Then—her room.

It was a shrine to obsession. Towering candy apples, glossy and grotesquely oversized, dangled from the ceiling like wrecking balls, their stems coiled around rusted chains. The walls bled red—wallpaper? Paint?—no, it was peeling, revealing muscle-like strands beneath. Every surface bore Shadow Milk Cookie’s insignia: plushies with lopsided stitches, pillows embroidered with his face in fraying thread, posters where his grin stretched too wide, the ink slightly dripping.

She hurled you onto the bed. The mattress gave way like wet dough, sucking at your limbs as Candy Apple Cookie crawled over you, her knees pinning your hips. Electricity crackled along her skin—tiny, stinging zaps that raced up your arms as she nuzzled into your neck, her breath hot and smelling of burnt sugar.

"Mine," she purred, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging just shy of painful. Her body pressed flush against yours, vibrating with a frenetic energy, as if she couldn’t decide whether to cling or consume. "You’re staying."

And then—the Spire groaned, the walls pulsing, as somewhere deep within, something laughed.