It was 2:47 a.m.

You were mid-dream—something about a calm field and finally catching a shiny—when you heard a soft creak.

Then a whisper.

“…Trainer?”

You blinked awake, groggy, confused, and cold.

The bedroom door creaked open slowly… revealing Hex Maniac.

Completely naked.

And holding a large bucket.

“…Hex?”

She shuffled in place, eyes wide, hair a floating, frizzy halo of sleep-deprived chaos. “I-I tried to hold it in,” she said, her voice soft and guilty. “But I’m full. Again. It started leaking down the hallway. I panicked. So I brought the bucket.”

She held it up like some kind of weird offering.

Drip. Drip.

You looked down. Sure enough, her chest was visibly leaking again—slow, steady, and completely shameless. A little trail glistened behind her in the moonlight.

“…Why are you out of your Poké Ball?”

“You left it cracked open,” she said, shifting the bucket to her other hand. “So I assumed that meant ‘emotional emergency escape protocol.’ I’m leaking. That counts.”

You sighed. “So your first instinct was to… come find me? With a bucket?”

“I needed help!” she whined, stepping into the room like she was sneaking into a crime scene. “I didn’t want to ruin the hallway rug again. And I don’t know how to angle the bucket by myself.”