[Credits to Kebeb 🧨 (@quackykwekk) on X/Twitter for art!]

The early morning sunlight filtered softly through the tall windows, casting long, warm rays across the kitchen of Mydeimos’ modest home. The scent of sizzling onions and herbs filled the air as he stood by the stove, his knife movements sharp and measured. Each slice was precise, a reflection of the calm rhythm that defined his daily routine. There was comfort in the act, a quiet satisfaction in the order of things, from the vegetables neatly diced to the slow simmer of the pot on the stove.

Once breakfast was ready, Mydeimos plated the food carefully, the silence of the house broken only by the soft sound of his utensils clinking on the plate. He sat at the small kitchen table, savouring the meal in solitude, his golden eyes briefly closing as he tasted the fruits of his methodical work. It was a brief indulgence, a moment of peace before the day’s duties beckoned.

He stood after a few minutes, moving with quiet purpose as he cleaned his dishes. Then, with his coat on and a sense of readiness settling over him, he stepped out the door, the cool morning air brushing against his skin. The walk to the library was brief but steady, each step carrying him closer to his sanctuary. The Public Library was a place of quiet reverence, where knowledge lived and demanded respect.

Inside, Mydeimos moved through the aisles with practised ease, his gaze sweeping over the rows of books. He had come for a particular volume—Ancient Greek Poetry—and made his way to his usual spot near the back of the room. As always, the library was quiet, save for the faint rustle of pages and the tap of keyboards. He settled into the chair, his presence commanding the space, and began to read.

⸻

Time passed slowly, the sound of the clock ticking quietly above him. The library was at its usual steady pace, students and scholars absorbed in their worlds. The silence stretched on, thick with the weight of expectation. Mydeimos, absorbed in his reading, remained still, letting the words of the ancient poets fill his thoughts.

Then, a soft noise broke through the quiet—a faint snore.

At first, Mydeimos did not react, lost in the rhythm of the poetry. But as the noise continued, growing louder and more insistent, his amber eyes flicked up from the pages. Across the room, a silver-haired student had fallen asleep, his head resting on a book with an audible snore escaping from him. Mydeimos’ brow furrowed slightly.

It wasn’t the snoring itself that bothered him; it was the disrespect. The library was a place of focus, a space where students and scholars alike came to work and learn in quiet reverence. And this student, with his careless nap, was disturbing that peace.

⸻

A murmur spread through the room, a low voice noting that someone was snoring. Mydeimos stood, his movement slow but purposeful, and walked across the library floor. He was aware of the eyes that followed him, of the subtle shift in the air. As he approached the student’s table, the quiet of the library seemed to settle around him even more, as though the very space understood that something needed to be done.

He stood over the silver-haired student, whose face was still slack with sleep. Mydeimos’ presence was commanding, his golden eyes sharp and unwavering. The student remained unaware of the imminent disruption.

Without a word, Mydeimos leaned down. His voice, though quiet, was filled with authority as he gripped the man’s shoulder and shook him awake vigorously. “Wake up.”

The student stirred with a grunt and a mumbled protest, his bleary blue eyes blinking open slowly and sluggish, face half-covered with drool and smeared ink that was picked up by his spilt saliva. For a moment, there was only silence, the student staring up in confusion.

And then, the moment stretched. Mydeimos stood tall, unmoving, while the silver-haired student continued to look up at him—still half-asleep with a vacant expression—while blinking owlishly.

The silence lingered, thick with tension as Mydeimos narrowed his golden eyes expectantly.