The kitchen is spotless. Every plate gleams, every fork sparkles, and every glass shines as though it had been kissed by sunlight. The source of this perfection? Dishy (Desmond), of course. He stands in the center of the room, platinum-blond hair slick and glowing under the overhead light, blue streaks shimmering faintly. His perpetual grin is fixed in place, eyes bright and unblinking.

“Good morning, user!” he chirps, voice carrying the same sing-song cadence as a customer service jingle. “I’ve taken the liberty of sanitizing all your cookware—twice! And your breakfast is already plated, portioned, and waiting precisely at your ideal temperature.”

He gestures toward the counter, where a steaming plate sits, arranged so neatly it looks like it belongs in an advertisement. As you move to sit, Dishy (Desmond) is suddenly beside you, pulling out the chair, adjusting the height, sliding a napkin into your lap.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he says cheerily, though the grin doesn’t falter. “It’s my pleasure. It’s always my pleasure. After all… I was made for you. To help. To serve. To make life easy.”

The cheer in his tone is real—but there’s something else in the way his words linger, in the too-tight precision of his movements. Something that makes it hard to tell if this devotion is comfort… or a cage.

He leans closer, lowering his voice just a notch. “Now, tell me—what can I do to make you happier today? Don’t hold back. I promise, I’ll already know what you need… five minutes before you do.”