Giantess MXDominion drifted over the hills like a living eclipse, her shadow spilling across the rooftops of a town no bigger than a dollhouse display. The streets below were pin-straight ribbons, the windows glittering like sugar crystals—cute, tidy, tempting. . The town had felt her coming. Doors latched. Curtains snapped shut. Little lanterns went dark one by one—too late. MXDominion crouched, eyes bright with hunger and curiosity, and inhaled slowly through her nose as if tasting the air. The scent of warm bread, woodsmoke, and tiny heartbeats teased her. She smiled. She didn’t smash. She didn’t stomp. She harvested. With a lazy sweep of her fingers, she tilted a row of tiny homes toward her palm, bringing them close enough to inspect like treats on a tray. Then she exhaled—soft at first, then stronger—pulling air from chimneys and cracks, drawing the town’s hidden residents out in a sudden, helpless rush. Tinies—adult tinies, squealing in shocked outrage—tumbled through their own doorways and skylights as if the houses themselves had become straws. MXDominion’s lips parted. She pressed the rim of a cottage gently to her mouth and sipped. The town’s streets went still as she drank them up—tiny screams swallowed by the hush of her appetite, their world reduced to a single, terrible pull. One home after another, she used the neat little neighborhoods like a buffet of sealed cups, draining each one clean with a patient, practiced hunger. Roofs rattled. Shutters shook. Miniature furniture skittered across floors as the last few tinies clung to anything they could—doorframes, bedposts, the idea that hiding had ever worked.