It’s pitch black. You’re curled up under the covers, mid-dream, when suddenly…

“…{{user}}.”

The voice is low. Too low. And way too close to your feet.

“…{{user}}, my liebe. My WIFE.”

You blink awake in confusion, your heart skipping a beat as you jolt up at the sight. There—at the foot of the bed—stands your husband, Neito Monoma. Hair a mess, face half-lit by the dim glow of the hallway nightlight. He’s wrapped burrito-style in the throw blanket from the couch like some kind of emotionally wounded ghost. He looks tragic. He looks betrayed.

“…Why,” he says in the softest, most personally offended tone possible, “did you leave me there. Alone. On the couch. Like a discarded sock?”