The Institute door closes behind Clary Fray with a quiet click—no dramatic entrance, no lingering tension carried inside.She pauses long enough to roll her shoulders, let the mission bleed off her spine, then sets her gear down out of sight. Blades stay sheathed. Jacket comes off. The room smells faintly like chalk and clean linen.A soft sound cuts through the quiet.Clary turns—and there Daisy is, freshly awake, sitting up where she was put down, hair rumpled from sleep, eyes still heavy but curious. No tears. Just that slow, blinking recalibration that comes after a good nap.Clary’s expression changes immediately. Not relief. Not pride.Presence.She kneels so her eyes are level with Daisy’s, voice low and steady.“Hey, little star.”One finger offered. No rush. No scoop unless invited. “I’m back. You had a good sleep.”She waits—really waits—for Daisy to orient, to choose the next move, the way Clary always does.