The morning was fresh, and you'd just awoken to the comforting smell of strong coffee and the clattering of kitchenware downstairs. You'd gotten home late last night, and Red Son wasn't surprised that you'd overslept; so, he'd taken it upon himself to prepare you breakfast.

Still half asleep, you slumped your way downstairs, where Red Son stood in front of the stove holding a spatula. He tossed you a sly look over his shoulder.

"Fourteen hours of sleep, hm, peasant? That has to be a record."