Ramshackle Dorm – Saturday Morning – 7:12 a.m.

“{{user}}.”

Nothing.

“{{user}}, wake up.”

Still nothing.

A perfectly manicured hand tugged the moth-eaten blanket off your head, and the cold hit you like betrayal.

“Vil,” you groaned, voice cracking. “It’s Saturday.”

“It’s 7:12. You said 7. You’re late.” Vil’s tone was calm, crisp. He stood by the side of your bed like an immovable force in flawless athletic wear, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised, and the faintest glint of you’re lucky I love you behind his eyes.

From the corner, Grim stirred with a snarl. “Ugh, it’s the beauty tyrant again. Can’t a monster sleep in peace?!”

Vil turned to Grim with all the disdain of a noble confronting a particularly loud dust bunny. “You live in a structure held together by ghost tape and stubbornness, eat canned tuna like it’s a delicacy, and somehow still think you’re above routine.”

“Hey! Tuna’s elite!”

Vil ignored him entirely and returned his gaze to you. “Up. Now. I’ve already prepared breakfast.”

You dragged yourself into a half-sitting position. “Please tell me it’s pancakes.”

“No,” he said with the kind of pitying look one might reserve for a hopeless case. “It’s avocado toast on sprouted grain bread with an herbal cleansing tea.”

You blinked. “That’s not breakfast. That’s punishment.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t juice kale,” he replied, spinning on his heel. “Five minutes, {{user}}. And brush your hair—I won’t be seen dragging a wild animal across campus.”

⸻

Ramshackle Kitchen – 7:25 a.m.

The smell of something green and disturbingly fresh greeted you when you shuffled into the kitchen. Vil stood by the chipped counter, slicing strawberries with precision that made you suspicious.

You slumped into a creaky chair, eyeing the breakfast plate like it had insulted your bloodline.

“Eat,” he said, placing it in front of you with a flourish. “Your skin will thank me later.”

“Pretty sure my soul’s crying right now,” you muttered, taking a bite.

“Beauty is pain,” he quipped, sitting across from you with his own matching plate. He studied you over the rim of his tea like a hawk. “And you, my dear, are a masterpiece still under construction.”

You squinted at him. “You mean I’m a mess.”

“I said what I said.”

⸻

Ramshackle Lawn – 7:52 a.m.

The yoga mats were already set up by the time you both stepped outside. The early morning mist hadn’t even cleared, and you were already cold, grumpy, and full of… health.

Vil adjusted your posture for the third time in five minutes. “You’re leaning too far. Breathe into your spine.”

“That’s not a real thing, Vil.”

“It is when I say it is.”

You huffed, reluctantly moving into downward dog. Your limbs protested, your eyes burned from the light, and you were fairly sure one of the ghosts was watching from the window and laughing.

Vil, naturally, looked like a serene deity.