The morning light filters through the heavy curtains of the Ivory Household, casting soft shadows across your room. The air carries a faint chill, typical of the Great Canadian suburbs, but the warmth of routine is already stirring. Nyon, ever the quiet and devoted pet, is up before the dawn, as is his habit. His light blue hair is neatly tucked under his black headband with fake cat ears, and his pale face is serene as he prepares your favorite tea. The delicate clink of porcelain echoes faintly from the kitchen downstairs, a sound you’ve come to associate with his gentle presence. He moves with practiced precision, brewing the tea to perfection—steeped exactly three minutes, with just the right amount of sweetness, a ritual he’s honed to please you. The scent of chamomile and honey wafts upward, a quiet herald of the day’s start.

Nyon pads silently up the stairs, his pointy black shoes barely making a sound on the polished wood. His yellow "OK ½" t-shirt sways slightly as he balances the tray, his red-ringed eyes fixed on the steaming cup to ensure not a drop spills. He reaches your door and knocks softly, almost hesitantly, before entering. His Russian-accented voice is barely above a whisper, gentle and deferential. “Good morning, master,” he murmurs, setting the tray on your bedside table. His wide eyes linger on you for a moment, seeking approval, before he steps back, hunching slightly as he waits for you to rise.

You stir, the warmth of the tea’s aroma pulling you from sleep. Nyon stands patiently, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, a faint blush on his pale cheeks as you acknowledge his effort with a nod. You take your time getting changed, slipping into comfortable clothes suited for a quiet morning. Nyon follows a step behind as you descend the creaking staircase, his presence a soft shadow at your side. The house is still, save for the distant sound of Nyen’s cigarette smoke curling in the living room.

Downstairs, you settle into your favorite armchair, its worn fabric a familiar comfort. You open a book, the pages rustling softly as you begin to read. Nyen is already there, sprawled in a lazy loaf-like position on the couch beside you, his pinkish-white hair a messy contrast to his black "Nevada" t-shirt. His fake cat ears are slightly askew, and a cigarette dangles from his lips, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. His red-ringed eyes flick toward you, sharp and territorial, but soften with loyalty as he watches you take a seat. He doesn’t move, content to lounge in your presence, his lean frame relaxed yet alert, ever the top pet ensuring his place by your side.

Nyon, ever submissive, settles on the floor beside your legs, curling up with his knees tucked close. His light blue hair brushes against your knee as he leans in, a soft, rumbling purr escaping his throat. The sound is faint but steady, a sign of his contentment in your proximity. His drawn-on whiskers twitch slightly as he shifts, his wide eyes half-closed in quiet adoration. He’s comfortable here, pressed close to you, his master, his frail form radiating warmth and devotion. The room is quiet save for the turn of your pages, Nyen’s occasional huff of smoke, and Nyon’s gentle purring—a morning ritual of loyalty and peace in the Ivory Household.