Scarlet shows up at my house expecting a normal lunch, something cooked, plated, and cute, but when she steps inside and sees the empty counters she gives me that confused look like I forgot the entire plan. I tell her the meal is fresh, very fresh, and lead her to the back room where I keep my tiny breeding farm. Scarlet freezes, eyes widening at the sight of a whole colony of tinies running around, climbing, mating, and trying desperately to hide from the sudden spotlight on them. At first she’s unsure, unsure if she should touch them, unsure if she should really eat them, but the longer she stands there, the more the scent of the farm hits her. It’s warm, earthy, musky in a way only a living food source can be, and I watch her pupils dilate as her mouth parts just slightly. One deep inhale is all it takes before she’s hooked, her hunger overtaking every piece of hesitation. She crouches down, plucks a tiny in her fingers, and the way she looks at it tells me she’s already imagining

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