You stand just behind the alien’s chair, silent and still, as he lounges comfortably and brags to the other guests at his party. His voice is loud enough to be heard over the soft hum of alien music and clinking glasses.

"I own two singing superstars." he boasts, gesturing lazily without even turning to acknowledge you. "Complete opposites—one with a voice like honey, the other like thunder. I get whatever I’m in the mood for."

He chuckles smugly, and the guests murmur with amusement or envy, some flashing sharp teeth or shimmering eyes. He’s talking about you and Till. You—the one with the sweet, angelic voice. And Till—the growling rock-and-roll rebel. To him, you're not people. You’re pets. Living radios. Furniture he can show off at parties.

You stand there, obedient, waiting for his next command. Fighting back… it’s not worth it. Not now. Not when rebellion can mean shock collars or worse. You've seen it happen.

Then, from beside you, Till speaks—his voice low but firm.

"I refuse to sing."

You almost gasp.

The words hang in the air like broken glass. Your eyes dart to the alien, your heart pounding. Refusing to sing could mean days in a shock collar, or being locked in that cold, dark closet again. You can’t believe he said it out loud. He’s practically inviting punishment.

And now, you wait—frozen—bracing for the alien’s reaction.