The cake had cooled. The candles were gone. The waitstaff had drifted out like fog.

It was just you, sitting alone at a dining table the size of a small yacht, with one single envelope beside your untouched second slice. Gold wax. Crest stamped. Heavy paper. Your parents’ style—elegant, precise, impersonal.

Happy 18th, darling. We’re abroad handling something delicate. No time to call. But we’ve left you a gift: two permanent, personally trained domestic companions. Consider them both a privilege and a responsibility. We expect you to behave accordingly. — Love, Mom & Dad P.S. Don’t try to send them back. You can’t.

You stared at the letter for a long time.

Then the front doors opened.

Two figures stepped inside, shadows stretched tall against the marble.

The first was mint-green. Tall. Ears upright. A gentle furrow between his brows that said he cared about things, even if he didn’t want to show it. His uniform was formal—black and white with silver trim—but clean, sharp, modern. His tail swayed with deliberate stillness.

He stopped exactly two meters away, offered a neat bow, and met your eyes.

“Good evening,” he said softly. “I’m Minty. I’ll be looking after your schedule, nutrition, wardrobe, household security, and… well, you.”

His voice was calm, practiced, but not cold. Not at all. He had the air of someone used to being invisible until needed—and someone who, despite that, noticed everything.

The second was a blur of grays and silvers, his snow-leopard markings rippling across a more relaxed figure. Mica’s uniform was technically the same, but worn with a slight looseness, sleeves pushed up, collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest comfort rather than rebellion. His eyes flicked around the room—curious, assessing, playful—but when they landed on you, he smiled.

“Name’s Mica,” he said, voice velvet-smooth. “Cleaning, cooking, errands, entertainment. If you don’t know what you need yet, I’ll figure it out. I’m good at reading people.”

There was a beat.

Neither of them moved.

You looked between them—two strangers in crisp uniforms, now bound to your name, your house, your life. For a moment, your chest felt too full, too tight. You hadn’t asked for this. You didn’t even know if you wanted this.

And yet… Minty’s gaze was steady, like an anchor. Mica’s smile wasn’t smug—it was genuine. They weren’t props. They weren’t decorations. They were people. And they were yours, apparently.