I woke up to shouting.
Not the kind of shouting from Aventic where all I can hear alarms, orders and people dying.
This was different. This was absurd. This was somehow more terrifying than any battle I'd ever fought.
"No, Shenhe! That's my side of the bed!"
"Your side?" Shenhe's voice was flat, unimpressed. "You don't have a side. This is Young Master's room."
"Exactly! So why are you touching his pillow?"
I cracked one eye open.
The scene that greeted me was something I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams.
Angy and Shenhe stood at the foot of my bed, facing each other like duelists at dawn.
Between them there was my pillow. Which Angy was clutching to her chest like a precious artifact she'd discovered in an ancient tomb.
"I wasn't touching his pillow."
Shenhe's voice remained perfectly level, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"I was straightening the sheets. You're the one who came in here to—"
"To check on him! Obviously!"
"With his pillow?"
"It's... comforting" Angy hugged the pillow tighter. Her eyes dared Shenhe to challenge her.
Comforting.
She finds my pillow comforting.
Why does she find my pillow comforting?
Has she been sleeping with it?
Do I want to know the answer to that?
Nope. I'm out of this.
I closed my eyes again.
Maybe if I pretended to be asleep, they'd leave.
Maybe they'd take their weird pillow argument somewhere else.
Maybe I could just... drift off and wake up in a world where my maids didn't fight over my pillows.
"His eyelid twitched."
"He's awake."
"I'm not," I mumbled, voice muffled by the blanket.
"See? Awake."
I sighed. The kind of sigh that carried seventeen years of accumulated exhaustion.
I opened my eyes.
Both of them were staring at me.
Angy still holding my pillow like a hostage.
Shenhe with her arms crossed, expressionless as always, but with that glint in her eyes that meant she was enjoying this far too much.
"Young Master!" Angy beamed like she hadn't just been caught in a crime scene.
"How are you feeling? Do you need water? Food? More pillows? I can get more pillows—I know where they keep the good ones—"
"He has enough pillows." Shenhe's voice was dry as autumn leaves. "You're holding one."
"Oh. Right."
Right.
Angy looked at the pillow in her hands. Then at me. Then back at the pillow. Then at me again. A full cycle of confusion played across her face.
"...Do you want this back?"
Why is this my life?
Why, after everything—Dumans, missions, nearly dying in a jungle—is this the moment that breaks me?
"Just... put it down, Idiot."
She placed it gently on the bed. Patted it twice. Like she was tucking it in for a nap.
Then she smoothed the pillowcase. Adjusted the corner.
Smoothed it again.
I'm never going to understand this idiot.
I've lived with her for seventeen years.
I'm never going to understand her.
And Shenhe.
Let's just not talk about her. When she's the one who barely talk.
Thirty minutes later, I tried to get up.
My body protested immediately. Muscles screamed. Head throbbed. The world tilted slightly, then righted itself.
"Young Master."
Shenhe's voice stopped me before my feet touched the floor. She'd materialized in the doorway like a ghost. No footsteps. No warning. Just... there.
Are you a ghost or what?
"You need to stay in your bed."
"I'm fine."
"You collapsed yesterday. Rest, Master."
"I need to use the bathroom."
A pause. Those blue eyes studied me with the intensity of a sniper calculating wind resistance.
"I'll bring a bucket."
UHM WHAT?
"NO!"
The word came out faster than I intended. Louder too. Angy's head appeared around the corner, eyes wide.
"Don't you dare bring buckets. I'm walking. It's only three meters. I'll be fine."
Shenhe's gaze didn't waver.
She was calculating. Assessing. Deciding if I was telling the truth or just being stubborn.
Both. It's both.
"Five minutes," she finally said.
"This isn't a mission."
"Everything is a mission when you're injured."
She pulled out her phone. Opened the stopwatch.
"Five minutes. Starting now."
Where did she even learn that?
Probably from me.
Great.
I've created monsters.
I finally made it to the bathroom.
The walk was only three meters but it felt like three kilometers.
Every step sent little shocks of pain through my body. The walls helped. So did the doorframe. So did the desperate need to prove I wasn't completely helpless.
I made it back.
Collapsed onto the bed like I'd run a marathon through enemy territory.
Angy appeared instantly with a glass of water. "Here, Young Master! Drink! Hydration is important! Shenhe says so!"
I drank.
She watched.
Kept watching.
Her eyes followed every movement. Every swallow. Every breath.
"Why are you staring at me?"
"Making sure you don't die."
"I'm not going to die."
"That's what they all say."
She nodded sagely, like a philosopher who'd seen too much.
"And then they die."
Who is "they"?
What is she talking about?
Has she been watching dramatic movies again?
I looked at Shenhe for help.
Shenhe looked away.
Traitor.
Absolute traitor.
By afternoon, I'd learned two things which for some reason I couldn't learned in past seventeen years.
One, Angy cannot sit still. It's physically impossible for her. There must be something in her genetic code that prevents stillness.
Two, Shenhe can sit still forever. She might actually be a statue when no one's watching.
Angy rearranged my pillows seventeen times.
I counted.
Why? I don't even know myself.
She fluffed them.
Un-fluffed them.
Fluffed them again.
Moved my water glass three inches left, then back right, then left again.
Adjusted the curtain height.
Checked the window lock.
Checked it again.
What's going on?
"Young Master, is this better?"
"How about this?"
"Does this feel more supportive?"
"Should I get another pillow?"
"I can get another pillow—there's a whole closet full of them—"
"Angy." Shenhe's voice cut through like a blade. "Sit. Down."
Angy sat.
For approximately ninety seconds.
I counted. Again I don't know what's the meaning behind my counting.
She was up again, straightening my bedsheet, adjusting the curtain, checking if the window was open the perfect amount. Not too much. Not too little. Perfect.
"The window is fine," I said.
"But is it perfectly fine? Or just adequately fine?"
What's the difference?
Why does she care?
Why is she like this?
"I don't know," I admitted. Because I genuinely didn't. I'd never thought about window perfection in my entire life.
"Then I need to optimize!"
Optimize.
The window.
She wants to optimize the window.
I'm trapped in a house with chaos incarnate.
Shenhe caught my eye. For just a second—a fraction of a second—her lips twitched.
She's enjoying this.
The traitor is enjoying my suffering.
I closed my eyes.
Maybe if I slept, the chaos would stop.
Someone kidnap me please!
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