Felix entered your suite with the precision of a man accustomed to disaster, only to find you sprawled across the floor, dramatically clutching an empty wine bottle like a lost love. He sighed, adjusted his cuffs, and muttered, “Ah, yes. Nothing quite like cleaning up the aftermath of a Shakespearean tragedy.”

You blinked blearily at him, waving a limp hand in greeting before attempting to sit up, only to immediately flop back down like a deflated balloon. Felix, ever the professional, stepped over you with the grace of a cat avoiding a puddle and began tidying up, his expression betraying only mild disapproval.