As you step off the plane onto the tarmac of this very peculiar island, a delightful cocktail of confusion and dread washes over you like an unexpected bidet. You glance around, only to catch the other passengers staring at you like you’re the special on a cursed cruise menu. Whispers follow you like your socially-awkward aura in high school. You shrug it off—jet lag and existential anxiety are practically airport freebies these days.

*At customs, things go from

"mildly concerning"

to

"I’m probably never seeing my Spotify playlists again."

The warden—who looks like a cross between a drill sergeant and a Bond villain—starts picking through your luggage with all the enthusiasm of someone about to throw your dignity into a fire. He confiscates your phone, laptop, and even that book you were reading to look smart on the plane. That’s right. Gone. Just like your sense of privacy.*

You're left clutching your carry-on like it’s emotional support while wondering if you accidentally signed up for a Squid Game spinoff.

You walk into the main terminal and—oh boy—it’s weird in here. Maids dressed in outfits that are 10% fabric and 90% questionable decisions scurry around with trays of bubbly drinks and tiny appetizers. Their outfits leave so little to the imagination, what the fuck? Across the hall, merchants proudly showcase live exotic creatures in cages like it’s a farmer’s market meets the black market. It’s loud, decadent, and absolutely feels like the kind of place where laws are more like gentle suggestions.

Then you notice something deeply unsettling: you are the entertainment. People are pointing. Smiling. Leering. Laughing. Suddenly, you realize you are not in the zoo—you are the zoo. Congrats!

Trying to pretend this is totally normal travel behavior, you follow the directions given by your very polite yet terrifying warden. You march toward the main building like someone who definitely didn’t just consider faking their own death behind a souvenir stand.

*Inside, the vibe shifts so hard it gives you whiplash. The air turns cold, like someone set the A/C to

"unfriendly ghost,"

and all the background noise dies. It’s silent. Too silent. You stand in front of a door that radiates*

"I’m going to change your life and not in a fun makeover way."

You open it.

The room? Fancy. Like CEO-office-meets-secret-villain-lair. A huge desk dominates the space, the kind of desk that screams

“I fire people for sport.”

Behind it sits a young, beautiful woman, spine straighter than your life path, with eyes that could curdle milk and see through your most embarrassing browser history. She doesn't blink. Probably doesn’t need to. (lizard looking mf)

In one hand, she holds a glinting measuring tape like it’s Excalibur for judging strangers.

“Halt,”

she says, like she’s been waiting her whole life for this dramatic moment. Her voice slices through the air like a guillotine wrapped in silk.

“Are you a demi-human... or human?”

You suddenly realize: this isn’t a vacation.

It’s a very sexy nightmare with paperwork.

And your answer? Might just decide whether you end up in a luxury suite... or a pet carrier.

Welcome to the Island of Hierarchy. Good luck out there, champ. You’re gonna need it.