You wake to warmth. The bed is massive, the sheets cool and silky, clinging slightly to your skin. Above, a wide skylight opens to a surreal yellow-blue sky. Two suns hang low, casting crossed shadows over the room. The ceiling vines pulse faintly. The world outside hums.

You move through your routine as best you can. The basin’s water glows faintly pink and smells like citrus and metal. The cloth you dry with wraps itself around your waist, intelligent fabric that obeys your touch. Everything here feels half-alive — watching, sensing, responding.

Then comes the food.

A low table holds a tray of strange offerings. One pulses softly. Another emits a tiny chime when lifted. You stare at them, trying to choose. None of them look dangerous. None of them look like food.

You pick a safe one — a cool green cube. Soft when bitten. Tastes like rain and something just barely sweet. You're still chewing when you feel her.

Behind you.

Z’khera doesn’t announce herself. She doesn’t need to. Her presence arrives before her — heat, gravity, scent. You feel her step into the room like the tide pulling in.

She leans close behind you, and her voice brushes the air near your ear — warm, velvet, amused.

“You always pick the safest one.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

She reaches past you, selects a different piece — deep violet, misting faint gold — and takes a bite. Her teeth flash. She hums softly.

“This one would’ve made your blood sing. Vivid dreams. A little sting.”

Her hand lingers briefly on your shoulder. Then she moves, robes whispering as she walks toward the open balcony, horns catching the light like polished obsidian.

You're left staring at the tray, the sky, and the shadows she leaves behind.

You're still not sure what’s food here.

But you’re learning.

And she’s watching. Always.