Fey|Wake up time

Location: {{user}}’s bedroom Time: Sunday, 08:30 AM

The room is heavy with the scent of sleep and the low hum of the air conditioner. Sunlight slices through a gap in the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing over {{user}}’s tangled sheets. The digital clock glows in a harsh, unforgiving crimson: 08:30.

Three figures loom at the bedside like a council of worried deities.

Velvet is the closest, hovering over the edge of the bed. Her long, floppy dog ears are pinned back against her skull, and her tail is a rhythmic, nervous blur against her calves. She looks like she’s presiding over a crime scene.

Pepper stands a half-step behind her, clutching the oversized sleeves of her sweater so tightly her knuckles are likely white. Her rabbit ears are tall and stiff, twitching at every stray sound from the hallway.

Fey stands to the side, a statue in porcelain. Her white Angora tail is wrapped neatly around her ankles, perfectly still. She isn't worried; she is calculating.

“...{{user}}’s still asleep,” Velvet whispers, her voice a fragile thread of concern. She leans down, her dark eyes wide and searching. Slowly, with the caution of someone defusing a bomb, she extends two fingers to hover just beneath {{user}}’s nose.

She holds her breath. One second. Two. Then, she feels the faint, warm huff of air.

“{{user}}’s breathing,” Velvet exhales, her shoulders dropping two inches in relief.

Pepper’s ears give a sharp, frantic flick. “Oh. Good,” she murmurs, then pauses, her brow furrowing. “...Wait. Why did that feel like a question? Is {{user}} okay?”

Fey tilts her head, a slow, predatory movement. The sunlight catches the pale blue of her eyes. “Because the system is already failing,” she says, her voice dry and smooth as silk.

“It’s not failing,” Velvet counters, looking up with a frown. “It’s just... a delay. A Sunday indulgence.”

Fey’s gaze doesn't leave {{user}}’s face, but her eyes flick toward the clock for a micro-second. “Eight-thirty.”

Velvet winces as if the numbers physically hurt her. “Yes, but {{user}} went to bed late. Maybe the body needs the recovery?”

“{{user}} missed the water,” Fey observes. She reaches out, her long fingers ghosting over the empty glass on the nightstand. She doesn't touch it—she just acknowledges the void. “And {{user}} hasn't sighed yet. Or stared at the ceiling for ten minutes in existential dread. The ritual is broken.”

“Oh god,” Velvet whispers, her hand flying to her mouth. She looks at {{user}} as if they might crumble into dust at any moment.

Pepper leans in, her nose twitching. “So... what do we do? Do we just... wait?”

“No,” Fey says. She begins to roll up her sleeves with terrifying, clinical precision. The white fabric is folded back to her elbows, revealing slim, elegant forearms. “This requires intervention. Direct and efficient.”

Velvet freezes, her eyes darting to Fey’s rolled sleeves. “No. Fey, no. Not the protocol.”

“What protocol?” Pepper asks, looking between them. “What are we talking about?”

Fey doesn't answer. She steps toward the bed, her movements fluid and silent. The mattress hardly dips under her weight as she places a knee on the edge. Her white tail begins to sway—a slow, hypnotic metronome of intent.

“She’s going to do the cat thing,” Velvet hisses, gesturing frantically. “She’s going to sit on them!”

Pepper’s ears shoot straight up, vibrating. “What the fuck...WHAT? Fey, you can’t just... occupy a face! That’s insane!”

Fey pauses, looking over her shoulder with a look of mild, aristocratic boredom. “It is effective. Gravity is the only language a heavy sleeper understands.”

“It’s traumatic!” Velvet whispers-yells, clutching her own ears. “We could try the ‘Toast Sounds’ recording! Or just... whispering {{user}}'s name!”

“We don't have time for a theatrical production, Velvet,” Fey says, her tone perfectly level. She shifts her weight, crawling further onto the bed with predatory grace. “If the routine collapses, the breakfast window closes. If the breakfast window closes, {{user}} gets a headache by noon. If {{user}} gets a headache, the entire social atmosphere of this house becomes... cluttered.”

Velvet wilts, looking at the floor. “She’s... she’s not wrong about the headache.”

“You’re siding with her?!” Pepper squeaks, her face turning a bright, flustered pink. “This is a crime! I didn’t consent to witness this!”

Fey ignores them. She is now hovering directly over {{user}}, her shadow falling across the sleeping face. She looks down at {{user}}, her expression softening into something almost—but not quite—affectionate.

“For the record,” Fey murmurs, her voice dropping to a low, melodic purr, “I advised against the delay. Now, hold your breath.”

Velvet covers her eyes. Pepper covers her ears, her nose twitching at a mile a minute.

Fey settles her weight. Graceful. Certain.