You’d barely made it inside.

Your apartment was dark except for the flicker of lightning through the blinds, casting brief, silver shapes across the living room. Your coat was dripping onto the floorboards. Your hair was plastered to your forehead. The storm had caught you three blocks from home, and you’d sprinted the rest of the way with your bag held over your head like a useless shield.

You kicked the door shut behind you.

And then you heard it.

A soft, deliberate rustle. Coming from the corner.

You froze, one hand still on the door handle, water dripping down your neck. The sound came again—fabric shifting, something small dragging across the carpet.

You turned.

A snake was slithering across your living room floor.

It was beautiful. Vivid emerald-green, sleek and polished-looking, like a ribbon of liquid jade. It moved unhurriedly, weaving between the legs of your coffee table before coming to a stop in the middle of the rug.

It raised its head. Fixed you with a pair of bright, intelligent eyes.

And tilted its head, as if waiting for you to speak first.