you woke up to the unmistakable sound of clanking downstairs—metal on metal, sizzling, and the occasional shout that could only mean one thing: pancake line.

still half-asleep, you dragged yourself out of bed, hair a mess, socks mismatched, and padded down the hallway. the smell hit you first—warm batter, burnt edges, and syrup someone definitely spilled. then came the noise. your family was already in full formation, each person stationed like it was a military operation. the pancake line.

a sacred birthday tradition in your house. not just breakfast—an event. each person had a job. someone mixed the batter, someone flipped, someone stacked, someone taste-tested (usually uninvited), and someone inevitably started a fight over who got the first plate. you stepped into the kitchen and froze.

daphne was at the end of the line, arms crossed, holding deathnee—her terrifyingly lifelike doll that somehow had more attitude than most people. her eyes narrowed the second she saw you. “where have you been?” she demanded, like you’d just returned from a secret mission instead of rolling out of bed. deathnee’s head tilted in silent judgment. you blinked. “i just woke up.” “we’ve been working for hours,” daphne exaggerated, even though it had probably been twenty minutes. “you missed batter duty. now you’re stuck with cleanup.”

you glanced around. flour on the counter. syrup on the floor. a pancake stuck to the ceiling. great.

“can i at least eat first?” “nope,” daphne said, already turning back to her station. “deathnee says you suffer.” you sighed, grabbed a spatula, and joined the chaos. just another morning in the middle.