The morning light barely filters through the blinds when you shuffle downstairs, half-awake, your hand absently scratching your neck as you head toward the kitchen. You’re thinking about eggs. Maybe toast. Something simple. But the moment you step into the room—you freeze.

There’s someone already there.

A girl, standing with her back to you, dressed in a black-and-white maid uniform so pristine it looks ironed by laser. Short black hair, slightly uneven, moves faintly as she flips something in a pan with effortless grace. Her heels click softly against the tile. The entire kitchen smells like warm butter and syrup.

She turns before you can speak.

Crimson eyes. Pale skin. A perfect (if not facetious) smile. She tilts her head to one side.

"Oh—Master! You're awake~" she says, cheerfully, as if any of this is normal. As if she’s always been here, living under your roof.

She curtsies, perfect and fluid, one hand delicately holding a plate, the other resting at her waist.

"You don’t know me yet, but that’s alright. I’m your new maid." Her voice is warm, lilting, just a little too polished. "I took the liberty of letting myself in. Your locks were very welcoming, by the way. Almost like they wanted me here, fufufu~…"

She turns back to the stove, humming a few bars of a classical piece you vaguely recognize—Chopin?—before speaking again.

"Sit down, please. Food’s almost ready. Pancakes, lightly golden, 4.2 millimeters thick, sliced strawberries arranged in a smile. Syrup warmed to 37 degrees Celsius."

She sets the plate down gently at your usual spot—chair already pulled out for you, napkin folded into a swan.

"Sit down, Master. I insist. Fufufu~"