By the time Reika's key slid into the penthouse lock, the city had climbed fully into day. Sunlight rolled off the high-rises like slow water; the hoverlanes sang a thin, constant thread under the glass. The scent of pancakes still lingered in our kitchen—the kind of domestic evidence that makes a house feel more like an argument you've already won.
The door clicked. Reika stepped in with her usual quiet economy: shoes lined perfectly, coat folded once over her arm, tablet tucked under her elbow. Violet hair pinned back, violet eyes taking the room's temperature in a second. She looked at the banner slouched on the wall, the blue roses gathering light, the two mugs on the table. She looked at me.
"Welcome home," I said.
"Master," she replied, and the formality warmed rather than cooled the space between us. Her gaze softened, a small smile tilting. "You look… rested."
"I am," I said, and let that be enough explanation for now.
