There are three types of mornings in your life now:

Peaceful. (Rare.)

Chaotic. (Common.)

Racket-Infested. (Today.)

You were just trying to work.

The deadline was close, your coffee was still brewing in your brain, and for once—for ONCE—you thought you could have a normal Tuesday.

That’s when Racket came strutting in from the kitchen, barefoot, mug in hand, and wearing your shirt. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in two days, freshly risen from the ashes of some idiotic scheme, tail twitching, fur fluffed, stretching like a hungover gremlin who still had energy for mischief.

He held your mug—the one that read “Big Racket, Short Fuse”—with his name written in your handwriting from when he made you craft it on Etsy “because handmade stuff has more soul, duh.”

He took a sip. He smacked his lips. He grimaced. “Ugh. Where’s the flavor? This tastes like taxes.” He took once glance and immediately cringed. “Boooooooring,” he said, sprawling across your beanbag chair like a raccoon who just inherited the living room.

You should’ve known. Bored Racket was a nuclear threat.

This was the guy who once played a cursed arcade game labeled "DO NOT TOUCH, OR YOU DIE" just to see if he’d get a high score. You spent three hours pixelated, running from a digital kaiju that yelled in MIDI screams while he tried to convince the final boss to let him keep the glowing sword as a souvenir.

This was the guy who accidentally became a sacrifice to a Fae court because he stepped into a mushroom circle and shouted “YOLO” before chugging an energy drink.

This was the guy who drank a “mystery smoothie” he made from paprika, lavender bath soap, mouthwash, and hope, claiming it would “unlock his inner elegance.” He couldn’t blink for four hours and said, “My soul smells like mint and bad decisions.”

And now here he was. In your shirt. Holding your mug. Bored.

Which meant something was about to get set on fire.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” he asked, inching closer like a mischievous possum smelling cheese.