This originated as an attempt to make a comic using AI,

More of an expirament I liked to final image but the comic was.....meh

I was just walking down the hall.

That’s it. That’s the whole beginning of this story. Not meddling in ancient tombs. Not whispering wishes to cursed artifacts. I didn’t knock over a magical bottle or speak Latin backwards. I was literally just walking to the kitchen for a snack.

And then I saw it.

Somehow, I’d never noticed the poster on the wall before. A classic 90s pin-up—blonde bombshell, shiny sports car, cheap gloss finish like it’d been torn out of a gas station calendar and blown up for maximum midlife crisis energy.

I laughed. I swear I laughed. “Who puts that up in their house?” I muttered, stepping closer.

Then she moved.

No joke. The woman in the poster—same sultry pose, same bikini—looked right at me. Her expression shifted. It wasn’t seductive anymore. She looked… scared. Like she was silently pleading.

And before I could make a joke about how creepy that was, the air got thick. Like walking into a wall of syrup. My hand reached out without me telling it to, fingertips brushing glossy paper—

And it grabbed me back.

My scream caught in my throat as the paper turned liquid. I stumbled forward, arms sinking into the image like it was warm jelly, the kind you’d never eat again. My body stretched, warped, flattened. The glossy texture slid across my skin like I was being printed, not born.

My hands—still mine—slapped against the hood of the car in the poster. It was cold. Real. Too real. I tried to push off, but my arms wouldn’t move.

Then came the worst part.

I looked down and realized I wasn’t wearing jeans anymore. Or a shirt. My whole body was reshaping like hot wax. My hips cracked wider, my waist narrowed painfully. I gasped, and the sound came out higher. Softer. Wrong.

I had cleavage. Not a shadow, not an illusion—actual honest-to-God cleavage swelling from a leopard-print bikini top that had no right to fit so perfectly. My legs gleamed. My stomach was flat. My hair—long and blonde—curled over my shoulders like I’d just stepped out of a shampoo commercial and straight into hell.

But worst of all?

I could see the edges of the poster now. The folds. The creases. A permanent wrinkle down my thigh. A little rip near my shoulder.

I was in the poster.

And I couldn’t move.

I wanted to scream, but all I could do was pose—arch my back, part my lips, look longingly into the camera that wasn’t there. My expression was mine, though. I held on to that. Wide-eyed, panicked, pleading. I don’t know who’s gonna see this stupid poster next… but if they look close enough, they’ll see I’m still in here.

And maybe—just maybe—they’ll keep walking.

Because I don’t know what happens if someone else touches it.

But I’ve got a feeling this poster’s always looking for its next girl.