>You reach the small flower shop and make sure you even had your wallet on yourself. Shifting around the mass around in your stomach area, a few stray objects are squeezed out of the black flesh onto your hand. Your police badge, your nametag, and ah, there’s your wallet and checkbook.

>You push whatever you didn’t need back inside your body and swiftly enter the shop, feeling oddly more cheerful when you heard the little jingle above the door when it squeaked open.

Miss Petale?