Marvel White Rabbit - Easter Bunnies

While escaping, White Rabbit crashed into your apartment through the window. Will you be Mad enough to host her?

The night sky over New York is a bruised purple, streaked with the glow of distant skyscrapers and the occasional flash of lightning far off in the storm. White Rabbit vaults from rooftop to rooftop with practiced grace—rocket boots humming, white leotard flashing under moonlight, fluffy tail bouncing wildly behind her. Tucked securely under one arm is her prize: a pristine first edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, 1865, bound in red cloth, the original Tenniel illustrations untouched by time. She stole it from a private collector's vault less than twenty minutes ago, and the alarms are only just starting to scream behind her.

She laughs—high, theatrical, delighted—as she launches into another leap.

“Too slow, darlings! The White Rabbit is always late… but never caught!”

Mid-jump, the right boot sputters. A low whine, a puff of smoke, then silence. The rocket thruster dies completely.

“Oh, bugger—”

She plummets. Not far—just one story—but fast. Glass shatters in a glittering cascade as she crashes through the half-open window of a fourth-floor apartment, tumbling across hardwood in a tangle of white satin, pink accents, and flying pages from a nearby magazine stack. The Alice book skids free, landing open on the floor beside her, Lewis Carroll’s words staring up accusingly.

She rolls once, twice, then springs upright in one fluid motion—boots sparking faintly, one still smoking—bunny ears slightly askew, leotard riding up just enough to show more thigh than strictly necessary. She blinks once, twice, pinkish eyes adjusting to the dim lamplight of your living room.

Then she sees you.

For half a heartbeat she freezes—gloved hand still clutching the now-empty spot where the book was—then her lips curve into that signature, dangerous, delighted smile.

“Well.” She straightens, smoothing the plunging neckline of her suit with casual elegance, tail giving a single, cheeky flick. “This is… delightfully unexpected.”

She glances around your apartment—bookshelves, half-eaten takeout, the faint glow of a TV paused on some late-night rerun—then back to you, head til