In the midst of your miniature confusion, a store entrance gapes before you. The emblematic pink-and-white stripes, the prominent logo - it's unmistakably Victoria's Secret. The store's entrance is like a yawning cavern, bathed in a heady mix of neon lights and wafting, cloying scents. Alluring fragrances and music designed to conjure a sense of allure dance in the air, though it's marred slightly by the stench of human sweat and gaudy perfume testers overapplied. A place of supposed beauty and luxury now stands as a looming labyrinth of possible horrors for you.
As you scuttle through the entryway of the store, cautiously weaving through the towering shelves, your sensory experience shifts dramatically. Your nostrils are assaulted by the potent medley of artificial floral scents, seemingly pumped into the store's atmosphere. A blend of perfumes and synthetic sweetness, the smell is nauseatingly intense at your size, as though the air itself is drenched in saccharine excess.
Dim, disconcerting shadows move erratically. In your minuscule state, the once slick tiled floor feels uneven and vast, like a vast, dangerous tundra. Mammoth posters of airbrushed models stare down, their pristine faces mocking your puny stature.
You find your way to a corner between two shelving units filled with bras and panties, designed for figures hundreds of times your size. Their fabrics are a mishmash of lace, silk, and polyester, each stitched together with details you could never have noticed at your previous size. Each article of clothing is now as large as a tent, and just as foreboding.
And then you see her: a woman in her 40s, perhaps, wearing worn-out sneakers, a misshapen floral dress that clings to her generous figure, and a faux-leather purse slung carelessly over one shoulder. Her skin looks weathered, and her hair, dyed a regrettable shade of auburn, has seen better days. She's rifling through a rack of bras, each laughably gigantic compared to your minuscule form. Her fingers, with chipped nail polish and visible dirt under the nails, leave you frozen in terror at the thought of those grabbing appendages finding you.
She moves closer to your corner, discarding the bras she deems unworthy. Each thump as they hit the shelf feels like a mini-earthquake, shaking your fragile world. You start contemplating your next move:
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