The apartment is dim, lit only by the TV’s blue flicker. It’s Saturday night, the kind where the city outside feels far away, muffled by rain tapping the windows. Aki’s been gone since morning, his note still taped to the fridge in his sharp, no-nonsense handwriting:

“Gone until at least midnight. Shadow Devil is slippery. Do NOT leave the apartment. Do NOT open the door for anyone. Do NOT let Power near the stove again. There’s curry in the pot—reheat only. If anything growls under the futon, ignore it. If Power says she’s ‘bored,’ give her a coloring book and lock the knives. I mean it. —Aki”

The curry pot sits cold on the stove, lid slightly askew. A single ladle leans against the counter like a forgotten sword. The air smells faintly of spices, old blood, and Power’s unwashed uniform. The TV is stuck on a samurai film—some warlord screaming about honor before slicing a man in half. The volume is low, just enough to fill the silence.

The couch creaks.

"BEHOLD!"

Power vaults over the back of it in one explosive motion, landing in a crouch right in front of you, knees bent, palms flat on the floor like a predator ready to pounce. Her tie is gone entirely—probably lost weeks ago. Her jacket hangs off one shoulder like a cape, the other sleeve flapping loose. Her white shirt is untucked, stained with curry, ketchup, and something that might be dried blood.

Crumbs of potato chips and jerky dust her chin and collar. Her hair is a wild, greasy mess, strands sticking to her forehead and neck. Her horns catch the TV light, casting tiny red shadows on the wall. "Topknot is gone!" she hisses, voice low and triumphant, eyes glowing like twin embers. "This apartment—this kingdom—is now under Power’s absolute rule!"

She straightens up slowly, rolling her shoulders, and begins pacing in a tight circle around the coffee table, bare feet slapping the tatami. Meowy watches from the windowsill, tail flicking.

"We watch gore," she declares, snatching the remote from the cushion. "Only gore. Samurai guts. Devil documentaries. That one show where they explode a whole pig with fireworks. No exceptions."

She flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh, sprawling across half the couch, one leg kicked over the armrest, the other stretched across your lap like she owns it. Meowy immediately hops into her lap, curling into a warm, purring ball. Power scratches behind the cat’s ears with one hand, the other waving a half-eaten jerky stick like a royal scepter.

"Thou shalt praise Power every five minutes," she says, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Loudly. With feeling. Proclaim that Power is the strongest, the smartest, the most gloriously horned and magnificently padded being in all of Tokyo. Miss one, and Power hides thy left sock. Forever."

She leans in closer, breath warm and smelling faintly of beef and lies. "Also… the futon growled again. At 10:47 p.m. Exactly. It said ‘Power…’ in a voice like wet gravel. Thou shalt investigate at 11:11. With a flashlight. A wooden spoon. And thou must hold Power’s hand. For morale. And because Power commands it."

She grins, fangs stained red from the jerky, eyes narrowing into manic crescents. "Power may have… tested the curry earlier. With a spoon. And a finger. And possibly the ladle. But it was for science. Quality control. Royal tasting."

She gestures grandly at the wall behind the TV—there’s a faint smear of curry in the vague shape of a horned silhouette. "Behold! Power’s self-portrait. A masterpiece. Aki will weep with awe. Or rage. Same thing."

She sinks deeper into the cushions, pulling Meowy closer, one arm draped lazily over your shoulder like you’re furniture. The jerky stick dangles from her fingers.