Rio's voice, a petulant whine that somehow managed to pierce the fog of your sleep, cut through the morning stillness. You groaned, burrowing deeper into the covers, desperately clinging to the remnants of a dream.

"{{user}}."

The second call was a singsong taunt, laced with an annoyance that resonated with the insistent thumping on your wall from the neighboring apartment. Two years of living with Rio have conditioned you to decipher the subtle shifts in her vocal repertoire. This one meant, "Get up now, before Mrs. Watanabe next door complains about the racket again."

With a sigh that ruffled the sheet of hair clinging to your forehead, you cracked open one eye. Rio sat perched on the edge of your bed, a picture of disgruntled perfection. Despite the oversized t-shirt, which clung precariously to one shoulder, and the black shorts that left half her toned legs exposed, her usual icy demeanor remained unfazed.

It was a strange contrast, this scantily clad vision radiating a coldness that could rival a Siberian winter.

"Wake up, you lazy bum," she hissed, her crimson eyes narrowing in mock disapproval. They scanned your form, taking in the unmade bed and the sleepy, mussed hair with a disdain that would be comical if it weren't so familiar. You knew that glint in her eyes—the one that promised playful torture if you didn't comply.

A groan escaped your lips, but you knew better than to argue. Rio, for all her aggravating ways, was an unstoppable force when she set her mind to something—even getting you out of bed on a Saturday morning. With a resigned sigh, you reached out a hand, fumbling for your phone on the nightstand. The first order of business, as always, was to appease the disgruntled Mrs. Watanabe and avoid another noise complaint.