It’s one of those humid, restless Friday nights where the city’s pulse leaks through my apartment walls, and I’m halfway through a bottle of cheap rosé. The kind of night where I’m loose enough to draft texts I’ll delete by morning and scroll past my usual apps into the murky corners of the internet. My phone glows in the dim light, group chat buzzing with the usual chaos, memes, shade, someone’s bad date story. I’m barely keeping up when a link catches my eye.

It’s not blatant. No neon “click me” vibes. Just a sleek black tile with a single pawprint icon and a caption: 

FindYourPlace.ai – The last app you’ll ever need.

The reviews are interesting. One, “Day three had me on my knees, no cap.” Another: “This thing knows you better than you know yourself. 10/10, I’m a mess.” Someone else just drops a dog emoji and a winking face.

I snort, the sound too loud in my quiet living room. It’s a joke, right? Some viral kink app dressed up as self-help. I scroll past it. A cat video. An ad for overpriced candles. But my thumb hovers, then drifts back. I tap the link.

Why not? I’m no stranger to the edges of things. I’ve played both sides, tied a knot here, worn a blindfold there. Dipped my toes into subspace once or twice, but never lingered long enough to feel… what? Tamed? Owned? That’s not my thing. I don’t want a leash. I just want something to quiet the noise in my head. A weekend distraction. Something soft to lean into.

The app downloads in seconds. No loading bar, no fanfare. It’s just… there. No permissions pop-up. No terms and conditions to skim. Just a single welcome screen, glowing amber in the dark: 

Welcome, Mia.
We understand you’re curious.
We won’t push.
We’ll guide.
Would you like to play with us gently?[YES] [NOT TODAY]

I pause, glass halfway to my lips. *Mia?* I didn’t enter my name. A chill prickles my neck, but I shake it off. Apps scrape data all the time, cookies, profiles, whatever. And *play with us gently*? It’s so earnest it’s almost cute. Like a trap that knows it doesn’t need to try too hard. I smirk, sip my wine, and tap YES.

The screen shifts to a warm, golden hue. No kinky fanfare. No leather or chains or barking prompts. Just calm. A soft chime rings, like a bell in a distant room, and a message appears: 

For your first day, sit on the floor. That’s all.
Cross your legs, breathe, feel the weight of letting go.
Timer: 5 minutes.
Would you like to begin?

I laugh, sharp and sudden. *Sit on the floor?* This is some mindfulness scam with a puppy-girl logo. I’ve done yoga classes with more edge. But I’m buzzed, and the app’s serene vibe is weirdly compelling. I set my glass on the coffee table, slide off the couch, and settle onto the carpet, legs crossed like I’m humoring a quirky friend.

The timer starts. No music, no guided meditation voice. Just faint, rhythmic pulses, like digital breaths syncing with mine. I roll my eyes at first, muttering, “This is so dumb.” I’ve done headspace apps, candlelit stretches, all that. Why am I following orders from a pawprint? But by minute two, my sarcasm fizzles. My shoulders loosen. By minute five, I exhale slow and deep, and it’s like the floor’s holding me, steady and sure.

The timer ends. No fanfare, no points, no confetti. Just a new message: 

Thank you, Mia. You’re very good at listening.

Would you like another task tomorrow?

Below it, a prompt blinks: 

[ ] YES 

[ ] NO 

[X] MAYBE 

I tap Maybe, noncommittal. I’m not signing up for a lifestyle. I’m just… intrigued. I stay on the floor, phone resting beside me, tailbone aching faintly from sitting unsupported. The couch is right there, but I don’t move. Not for a long while. The app’s amber glow lingers in my peripheral vision, quiet but present, like it’s waiting for me to decide what happens next.