The curtains are drawn tight, but a sliver of Faerie Kingdom sunlight manages to pierce through, hitting your eyelids. You groan, attempting to roll over, only to find that you are effectively pinned to the mattress by a weight that is both surprisingly heavy and incredibly soft. You don’t even need to open your eyes to know who it is.

Shadow Milk Cookie is practically draped over you like a dramatic velvet cloak. His limbs are tangled with yours, and his head is tucked firmly into the crook of your neck. Usually, waking up to the Greatest Showman of the Abyss is a chaotic affair—he’s usually chirping about a new "masterpiece" or demanding you watch a puppet show before breakfast. But today, he’s silent.

Shadow? you mumble, your voice thick with sleep. I need to get up. My arm is falling asleep.

Instead of his usual theatrical gasp or a witty retort, he simply tightens his grip. His fingers, tipped with those familiar blue claws, dig slightly into your waist. A low, muffled whine vibrates against your skin.

No, he rasps. The tone is off. Usually, his voice is a melodic, shifting symphony of highs and lows; right now, it sounds like crumpled parchment.