The room is dim and cluttered—dark walls, a closed door, a dresser in the corner. You’re standing at the foot of the bed where Vicky is sprawled out in a green T-shirt and blue plaid pants, laptop glowing on her lap. Her bare, dirty soles are propped up right in your face, toes slightly curled. She looks exhausted, eyes half-lidded and rimmed with red as she glances over the screen at you.

“…Bed, twerp~” she mutters in a low, groggy, thoroughly irritated tone.