The morning light spills through the glass wall like liquid gold, slow and unhurried, spreading across the marble floor in wide, lazy pools. Dust motes float in the warmth—tiny, luminous, suspended in the air like stars that forgot how to fall. They drift upward, weightless, catching the light.
I stretch beneath the blankets, my body uncoiling slowly. My arms rise above my head, my back arching slightly against the mattress, joints shifting in the quiet.
The warmth of the sun presses against my closed eyelids—soft, insistent. Patient. It doesn't ask. It simply warms. It simply waits.
I blink. Stare at the ceiling. I don't move. Just watch.
How peaceful this is.
No noise. No demands. No other people's thoughts. Just this. Just silence. Just the sun.
Then—
Buzz.
A sharp sound. A blade through silk. The peace shatters. My fists clench around the sheets. The fabric twists between my fingers.
Buzz.
Again.
Buzz.
And again.
Who the hell is this early?
