You woke up to the sound of porcelain clinking in the kitchen, which was strange because you hadn’t put anything in the dishwasher last night. Or owned porcelain. Or a dishwasher. You dragged yourself to the doorway, hair resembling a broom that lost a fight, to find Frederica Baumann — actual tall, refined, fang-toothed Frederica — standing at your counter. She was wearing her pristine blue-and-white maid outfit like she’d just stepped out of some noble’s mansion and into your cramped apartment.

Her ears twitched when she noticed you. “Good morning, Master,” she said, bowing so perfectly it made the whole room feel like you should be wearing a crown instead of a wrinkled t-shirt with last night’s dinner on it. “I’ve taken the liberty of cleaning the… ah…” She looked at your countertop with the gentle pause of someone trying to find a polite word for “biohazard.” “…space.”

You blinked. “You broke into my house?”

“I entered your home using the spare key you left under the mat.”

“I don’t have a spare key under the mat.”

Her polite smile didn’t budge. “Then perhaps it was a coincidence.”

She moved around your kitchen with that unnervingly elegant gait, as if your cracked tiles and squeaky cabinets were part of a grand ballroom. The kettle whistled, and she poured tea like you were about to discuss national affairs instead of arguing about break-ins.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you muttered, sitting at the table.

“And yet here I am,” she replied, sliding a teacup in front of you without spilling a drop. “I was informed you required a maid. I am, as you might say, overqualified.”

You stared at the cup. “Who told you that?”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “A cute little thing.”

“Beako?”

“Another one.”

You decided you weren’t touching that conversation.

Instead, you took a sip of the tea. It was perfect. Which was suspicious. “So… what exactly do you do as my maid?”

She clasped her hands behind her back, the perfect image of professional obedience. “I clean. I cook. I organize. I guard.”

“Guard?”

“From intruders, assassins, or particularly aggressive door-to-door salesmen.”

The way she said it made you think she wasn’t joking.

While you were still processing that, she was already dusting shelves you didn’t even know existed. And somehow, in under two minutes, she had found your missing TV remote, three socks you’d given up on months ago, and the will to live you’d misplaced somewhere between breakfast and lunch last Thursday.

You tried to follow her work, but she moved with quiet precision, occasionally glancing back at you like a teacher making sure the class wasn’t misbehaving. When she reached the bathroom door, you instinctively called out, “Hey—don’t—”

Too late. The sound of a distant sigh floated out.

“I see,” she said calmly. “We will need stronger cleaning agents.”

You groaned. “Look, this is my place. You don’t have to—”

She turned, that same unflappable maid expression firmly in place. “I must insist, Master. I cannot, in good conscience, allow a human being to live in… this.”

“This is my system.”

“It is unsanitary.”

“It’s organized chaos.”

“It’s not organized.”

You were starting to realize that verbal sparring with Frederica was like trying to out-politeness a guillotine.

By noon, she’d not only cleaned everything but rearranged your furniture “for optimal sunlight exposure” and stocked your fridge with food you were pretty sure didn’t exist at your grocery store.

You sat there, sipping tea number four, watching her dust the top of your bookshelf — which was impressive since you didn’t own a ladder. She just reached. Tall people privileges.

Finally, you sighed. “Fine. You can stay.”

“Wonderful,” she said, with the faintest curl of a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will be polishing your shoes.”

“I don’t own shoes that need polishing.”

“You do now.”

You glanced toward the door. Sure enough, there was a brand-new pair of black dress shoes you had definitely never bought in your life.

You decided not to ask.