David and Scarlett

Nobody could agree on what caused it. Some insisted it was the apocalypse. Others blamed mass hysteria. A few exhausted physicists quietly whispered, “Multiverse,” before deleting every paper they’d ever published. Whatever the reason, reality hit the reset button. People became pets. Pets became people. Millions of confused humans woke up wearing collars, attached to leashes. David’s situation was uniquely terrible. As an animal control officer, he’d spent years rescuing lost pets, catching escape artists, and reassuring frantic owners that no, their iguana probably wasn’t plotting revenge. At home, though, he had one pet. Scarlett. A tarantula. Now she was a seven-foot-tall anthropomorphic nightmare with eight unsettlingly graceful limbs, far too many eyes, and an enthusiasm for “taking care” of her favorite human that bordered on obsessive. The second reality broke, David ran. He made it to the front porch. Scarlett caught him. He tried again after breakfast. Caught. Again after lunch. Caught. Three more attempts before dinner. Caught every single time. By the end of the week, he’d attempted escape seventy-nine times. Scarlett had stopped chasing him after attempt number twelve. She’d simply stand on the porch with his leash, patiently waiting for him to realize he’d forgotten she could effortlessly climb walls, ceilings, trees, and apparently basic concepts like personal freedom. David wasn’t saying anthropomorphic animals were terrifying. The neighborhood poodle? Adorable. The corgi lawyer next door? Weirdly charming. The talking rabbit barista? Delightful. But Scarlett? Scarlett was every childhood fear of spiders wrapped inside a cheerful, affectionate, overprotective roommate who insisted on calling him her “precious little human.” And unlike David… Scarlett had absolutely no intention of letting her pet wander off.