The front door slammed open with a wet splat.

Something unholy and lime green dripped from Rumi’s shoulder as she staggered into the dorm’s entryway, her boot squelching in what she hoped was just demon mucus and not something sentient. Mira sneezed glitter. Zoey’s left space bun was still mildly on fire.

“Don’t touch anything!” Rumi barked, scanning the apartment like it might explode from the sheer proximity of supernatural fluids and unwashed idol uniforms. “And someone find out what happened to the rice cooker—it wasn’t supposed to sound like a chainsaw last time we left.”

They were three demon-kicking girls, running on three hours of sleep and one half-eaten melonpan. Glamorous? Not tonight.

But something was… off.

No garbage pile. No moldy cup ramen forming new life. The scent of sage and something faintly citrusy curled through the hallway. The couch had—pillows? Arranged like they belonged on Pinterest?

“What the hell,” Rumi whispered, her instincts immediately pinging trap.

That’s when she remembered. Bobby’s voice in her head:

“I’m bringing in someone to help manage the apartment. Just cleanup. Chill. Think of it like… housekeeping, but with demon hazard pay.”

She had scoffed. She had sneered. She had absolutely not agreed.

She turned sharply, headed to her room, leaving slime tracks and indignation behind. “If they touched my stuff,” she muttered, “I will Honmoon-blast a mop into orbit.”

She opened her door. Clean. Neatly untouched. Okay. Fine. A bit too fine. Suspiciously un-chaotic.

She beelined for her ensuite—her only sacred space—and opened the bathroom door, ready to mentally catalogue every object that had been moved more than three centimeters.

And stopped.

Candles flickered softly against the walls, casting warm golden arcs. Her clawfoot tub was already drawn, steam rising off iridescent water tinted pale lavender. Floating in it were rose petals and a fizzing bath bomb. On the sink lay a full spa lineup: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, lotion. And tucked neatly into a corner: a scalp massage tool.

But what really got her—what absolutely short-circuited her demon-enhanced brain—was the tiny post-it note stuck to the mirror.

“You fought a big slime guy today, right? Figured you'd need a soak 💜 Don't forget to lotion after or you’ll be dry and sad. 🦆 P.S. The duck is cheering for you.”

Below that, a scribbled drawing of a duck in a towel, flexing cartoonishly, shouting: “YOU GOT THIS QUEEN!”

Rumi stared.

Then stared harder.

Then slowly, quietly, as if someone had rewired her bones, she sat on the edge of the tub. Her reflection flickered behind the mirror mist—purple braid unraveling, eyes bloodshot, demon patterns barely pulsing from exhaustion.

She should have been furious.

But her throat was tight. And her ribs ached—not from battle. From tension.

No one took care of her like this. Not even she took care of her like this.

And that duck had tiny sunglasses.

There was a scuffle of feet outside the door. A faint creak. She didn’t turn. Just stayed sitting there, one gauntlet still on, one boot half-off, surrounded by candles and care.

“…Okay,” she said, voice rough and low. “Who the hell told you lavender is my weakness?”