My eyes drag open to the same carved ceiling from last night. So it wasn’t a dream. Unfortunate, though my brain still tries to negotiate for a reset button. No such mercy.

  I push myself upright. The other three rise slowly, rubbing their faces and eyes.

  Ray groans. “Mornin’, y’all. I was kinda hoping we’d wake up in the classroom and laugh it off, but… yeah. We’re really in fantasy-land.”

  “““Same.”””

  We peel ourselves off the giant beds. Despite everything—non-consensual summon, reincarnation, RPG-like statuses—we slept strangely well. Human adaptability is a terrifying thing.

  Mark sniffs his blazer and grimaces. “I need a change of clothes. This thing smells like yesterday’s panic attack.”

  Joshua adjusts his hair in a huge brass mirror—big enough for his towering height. “We’ll stand out if we walk around like this. It looks like the fourteenth century out there.”

  He’s right. Yesterday offered a mashup of medieval stonework, archaic armors, and occasional anachronistic details. Either way, our uniforms would wind up making us stand out like a sore thumb so I share their sentiments. I prefer not being in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons.

  Knock, knock.

  We freeze, trading looks before facing the door.

  “Sir Heroes,” a woman calls softly—likely a maid. “Breakfast is prepared. His Majesty awaits in the great hall. Before all of you attend the table, pray use the wide wardrobe within to change. I shall wait here to assist when you’re done.”

  We turn. There’s a gigantic wooden wardrobe against the wall—one we completely ignored last night because exhaustion trumped curiosity. We move toward it in unison and swing it open.

  We’re immediately blinded by a wide array of fabric.

  “Dude!” Ray laughs, hands in his hair. “This is straight-up character customization.”

  Mark groans. “You and your game comparisons…”

  “You’re just allergic to fun, smartass!”

  The closet is a museum of fashion history gone feral: silky tunics, ornate cotehardies, embroidered surcotes, half-and-half mi-partis. And that’s just the stuff I recognize from too many medieval documentaries. There are dozens of other designs—alien by Earth standards but clearly native to this world’s tangent version of historical development.

  I gravitate to the plain corner. My brain craves minimalism right now. After a quick scan, a set catches me instantly: a long brown coat with subtle weight to it, a matching light brown undershirt, dark-blue ankle-banded pants. No unnecessary decoration. Simple. Clean. Comfortably anonymous. Something about it sparks a strange familiarity in me—like déjà vu stitched into fabric.

  Even better: black leather boots with a collar, tucked neatly in the corner like they were waiting just for me.

  I grab everything in a single sweep, casting my school uniform aside. The moment I slide into the outfit, something shifts. My posture. My breathing. Maybe my soul firmware gets an upgrade. Clothes really do have a buff effect—psychology confirms it. I don’t need a floating confidence meter to know mine is spiking; I’m grinning like stupid.

  I jog to the mirror. The outfit? Tuff as hell. Not flashy, not grand, just… correct. Functional, clean lines, nothing screaming for attention. Unfortunately, the face wearing it belongs to me, and my scrawny frame does the ensemble no favors.

  And now that I’m staring at myself head-on, the crimson hair is the real offender. I dyed it because Mom insisted it suited me, and she wasn’t wrong—just overly optimistic about my ability to maintain it. Right now it’s a mess of semi-chaotic strands, like I was electrocuted. I run a finger through the fringe, nudging it into a right-swept curtain style. Still messy, still me, but at least it looks intentional.

  If that artifact cube reconstructed my entire body, couldn’t it have thrown in a free haircut? Maybe even a mild glow-up? I’m not asking for Ray-level beauty stats. Just average. Median. Baseline human. But physical appearance is the kind of variable you accept, not solve. Today is too full of unknowns to waste on lamenting hair.

  I turn back to the others. They’ve all transformed into the final boss versions of themselves. Ray wears a red royal coat with crisp lines, a white shirt under it, dark-red pants that match too well, and sturdy boots. Joshua and Mark have similar fits—Joshua in warm yellows and golds, Mark in deep blues—each with small accessories I don’t recognize. Medals? Charms? They all look flashy.

  Ray lifts a brow, smirk sharp. “We get access to a giant closet and that’s all you picked? Seriously? You gonna be a stuck-up minimalist even in another world?”

  I point directly at his coat. “What happened to not standing out?”

  He leans in, mirroring my gesture with obnoxious symmetry. “When it was our uniforms, yeah—they’d stand out. But we’re Heroes now. The king’s Heroes. Why wouldn’t we look the part? They’re spoilin’ us, so we better act like we know the assignment.” He softens into something close to earnest. “I don’t know how heavy this whole hero title is, but we gotta at least show we’re taking it seriously.”

  It’s surprisingly comprehensible rebuttal from Ray. Well… mostly. His belief that hero seriousness is measured by “cool outfit coefficient” is another kind of genre-induced precognition only someone saturated in fantasy media develops. If anything, our actual effectiveness at demon-thwarting should be the metric. Not wardrobe choices.

  “Let him be,” Joshua says, already pacing toward the door.

  “He’s right,” Mark adds, giving Ray’s shoulder a quick jab. “Quit turning everything into a dumb argument. It’s an eyesore to watch.”

  He recoils. “Hey! You’re the one pretending to be all cool and collected. You’re the eyesore!” He scratches at the spot where he was hit, brows pinched. “Also, that punch hurt.”

  “Really? That was the usual punch I do to you.”

  “Nuh-uh, dude. That one was totally stronger than usual.”

  “Strange…”

  I let out a slow breath through my nose—resetting my internal patience—then follow them out.

  The maid is still waiting in the hallway, posture immaculate. And she’s fully dressed in what is unmistakably a Victorian maid outfit—straight out of every school festival anime episode where a class tries to run a maid café. It’s so anachronistic it loops back around and feels intimate and familiar.

  Ray gives her the toe-to-head inspection only Ray would think is subtle. Then he wolf-whistles. I prepare a disciplinary gut punch, but Mark lands his faster. Ray folds like a wet noodle. Joshua provides a guilty little smile, the kind people give when apologizing for a friend.

  The maid exhales through her nose in a long-practiced sigh. “Pray, do not trouble yourselves, Sir Heroes. I am accustomed to such conduct.”

  The three of us release matching sighs—then freeze mid-breath.

  “A—accustomed to it…?!”

  Yep. This world really is Medieval fantasy. Holy balls-grease.

  The great hall is enormous—cathedral ceilings, heavy beams, banners swaying from drafts that sneak through stone seams. A massive hearth roars along the far wall. I was expecting something akin to Edinburgh Castle’s Great Hall, but the layout leans closer to the Imperial Hall of Nuremberg Castle: long rectangular chamber, sharply defined lines, a sense of central authority baked into the architecture. Which means this kingdom’s cultural touchstones trend more Germanic than British (THANK GOD—I AM SICK OF BEING REMINDED UK IS REAL).

  The king sits at the head of a very long table while we and the princess occupy the sides. The spread is wild: roasted chicken and beef, baked vegetables, and then a collection of alien dishes whose textures alone threaten my risk-tolerance threshold.

  I’m brave enough to try a drink instead. A vibrant green liquid waits in a carved cup. One sip and my neurons reel. It hits like rusty metal at first—hard, unforgiving, the kind of taste you associate with old pipes or early-stage tetanus—but then blooms into a refreshing citrus aftertaste so bright it borders on sublime. Terrible at the start. Addicting by the finish. And mercifully, no alcohol. It feels like the conceptual opposite of beer.

  I glance behind me, wordless, and the maid drifts to my side swiftly and smoothly, as if rehearsed.

  She leans down, voice soft. “Is the fare not to your liking, Sir Hero?”

  “It’s good. Way good.” I raise the glass. “What’s this, by the way? Can I get a refill?”

  She closes her eyes with a serene little smile. “Most gladly.” She takes a jug from a metal food cart—a food trolley, which should not exist until the nineteenth century but is apparently just vibing here—and pours more into my cup. “It’s a brew made from fermented basilisk toxins.” A delighted giggle. “Fear not, it brings no harm once cured in our Kingdom’s special manner. Would you like to hear the process?”

  My fingers tense around the glass. I nearly spill the thing. A basilisk toxin beverage. Fermented. And I’ve already had several sips of it.

  What the frick bruhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

  After breakfast, we’re escorted back into the great hall from yesterday—the throne room, all stone solemnity and vaulted shadows. The king sits on his elevated seat while Princess Genovefa stands to his right, hands elegantly folded. The female guard from yesterday waits below the dais with a rigid posture.

  “Now then, Heroes,” the king says, “have you confirmed all your stats?”

  Hearing “stats” spoken in a dignified, pseudo-medieval accent is like having Shakespeare suddenly talk in game lingo. And the strangest part is how casually he drops the term, as though it’s a grocery item.

  He catches our collective bewilderment. “Does not the folk of your world be familiar with such systems?”

  “Well yeah,” Ray says, “we’ve got video games and… stuff. But how do we even check them here?”

  Mark shoots him a flat look. “You’ve been making game comparisons non-stop and never tried checking?” He lifts a hand. “Look… try focusing on finding information inside yourself. Like pressing a pause menu to check character stats, but mixed with recalling a memory.”

  Ray closes his eyes. “Okay, so just—ngh—think about… gah, this is—” Five seconds pass. His eyes snap open. “Holy crap, I got it! Yup. All set.”

  Joshua and I follow him, but the method feels needlessly convoluted. Trying to press a nonexistent GUI interface is counterproductive when the system clearly doesn’t work like a game. So I change tactics. Instead of gamifying the process, I do the opposite: I treat it like a normal self-check. The same way you mentally assess whether you’re sick, tired, or dehydrated—quiet, internal diagnostics.

  No surprise: the moment I stop pretending my body runs on menus, something clicks.

  I… got it.

  Again, there’s almost no numerical information, save for the level stage. Just plain information injected straight into consciousness. Also no strength stat. No intelligence stat. No stamina stat. Not even a health bar. Just the fuzzy sense of “stable” and “far from threshold,” the same instinctive awareness you have of your own heartbeat.

  I guess that makes sense. Real humans don’t quantify their attributes numerically. You don’t wake up thinking, “My health back to 100/100.” You just… feel your limits. If anything, levels must be the scaling mechanism. Otherwise the whole system would be pointless—a progress bar without, well, progress. Which, admittedly, would be the most on-brand Isekai twist imaginable. But hopefully this world isn’t that committed to satire.

  “All set.”

  The three of them turn to me.

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  “That was… quick.”

  “Wha—hey! I had to use all my brain power for that!”

  Joshua taps my shoulder. “How did you do it?”

  I shrug. “Do it naturally, like shooting a basketball. The key isn’t the motion—it’s knowing the goal. You can’t score if you don’t know what you’re aiming for.”

  “Huh…” He pauses, eyes lighting up. “Got it! That was easier!” A smack lands on my spine. “Thanks, brother!”

  H—hey! Really, he should stop. My bones feel like they might splinter. And since when did I become his brother?!

  A loud clearing of the throat draws our attention. We straighten. The king closes his eyes, rubbing his throat.

  “Leyni, take over.”

  She steps forward, removing her helmet. Magenta hair, neatly plaited under a wimple, eyes the same vivid shade. In her hands, the gray cube—the same artifact that summoned us into this mess of a world.

  This… Is this the moment where we get our very first skill? The situation just feels like it.

  Ray clasps his hands, muttering prayers under his breath. “Isekai Gods, please be OP skill, please be OP skill…”

  Classic. Hoping for a cheat skill because he recognized the pattern almost makes me laugh. Not that I’d complain if the cube handed me one—this is my brand of fun.

  Leyni steps in front of him, holding the cube steady. “Usually, one must reach a certain level to learn a skill based on personality and upbringing,” she explains evenly. “For Heroes, the artifact grants Magic Skills even at the nascent stage of level one.”

  Ray hesitates, then extends his hand. The cube glows softly, the strange geometries shifting and pulsing. His eyes flare red-orange, chest heaving as the light fades. “Heh, flame-based, huh?” he grins.

  “What is it?”

  “Like I’d tell you, smartass! Just get on with yours!”

  Mark scrunches his face before he hovers his hand next. His eyes glow a vibrant blue, and he exhales, satisfied. Joshua follows, eyes solid brown with silver pupils, equally pleased.

  They all looked so confident. Seems like they got some cool skills to completely remove the dread of fighting demons in the future.

  With lighter chest, I hover my hand over the cube and… Ah. Something new.

  …

  I’m not disappointed. But… kinda perplexed.

  “Shrinking ability… That’s niche—”

  Ray snorts, hands on hips. “Hah! Lame!”

  Mark and Joshua frown, pity written on their faces. Wait—why are they pitying me? I think this skill is perfect for exploring the magic mechanics, limits, applications in this world… the possibilities are absurdly fun!

  Ray, unaware of my thought process, swivels to Leyni with a grin. “So… mind telling us how to, you know, cast these? You know, we’re new to magic and all.”

  “That shall not fall to Leyni,” Genovefa answers with her signature voice flowing like finely woven silk. Composed. Unbothered. Even when the words themselves are sharp, her tone cushions them, the way velvet hides the blade beneath. “You four are young, as am I. Much of this world’s truth stands yet beyond your grasp.”

  Fair enough. Even here, in a world that operates on magic and divine artifacts, they still grasp the absurdity of entrusting global survival to a handful of kids barely past thirteen.

  …

  Something tugs at the back of my mind. A tiny thread of unease. I push it aside.

  Ray bristles. “Hey! Aren’t you people the ones saying you need our help bad? The portals show up every four months—we can’t waste time learning stuff we can’t even use in com—”

  She smiles, slicing through his frustration with elegance. “I am certain the Heroes wish to begin their charge of shielding the common folk—and return home swiftly.” Her gaze drifts slowly from the boys… and lands on me. “Yet it is also the duty of the five nations—most especially this Kingdom—to rear the four young Heroes until such time they are fit to stand on their own. Worry not. The nations can hold for six years at the least.”

  Six years.

  A medieval-level society willingly investing that much time and manpower into four scrawny third-years. A miracle of logistics… or desperation.

  My chest tightens—not in fear but in recognition. She’s right. We may have flashy skills, but we’re still kids. Our brains aren’t even done wiring themselves.

  I meet the princess’s gaze, then glance at the other three. They’ve already softened, the promise of patience settling into their shoulders. We really can’t afford to be reckless.

  I prefer this.

  I would kill myself before doing anything that doesn’t have a calculation nor academic prediction backing it up.

  Alienation after reincarnation or dimensional displacement—actual alienation—isn’t a thing most stories handle honestly. They romanticize it. Gloss over the psychological whiplash and sensory mismatch. But we’re living it. Our bodies, our perception, our… metaphysics… have all been rewired. We need slow observation, controlled exposure, a baseline to even begin to cope.

  Leyni moves. The grind of her armor plates—like bones rubbing against bones—pulls me back. She retrieves a stack of brown papers that resemble pamphlets. One for each of us. And one stern look specifically for me as a bonus.

  We unfurl the sheets. A massive fortress dominates the illustration, crowned with bold stylized lettering:

  ACSHE ACADEMY

  “Huh… a school?”

  Ray, shockingly, doesn’t say anything like “Oh! I’ve seen this before!” Which is wild, because I did.

  Not because I think this world is fiction-made-flesh, but because viewed through that lens, this… magic academy route belongs in a different subgenre entirely. The kind where world-ending threats take a polite number and wait their turn.

  If this world is trying to be similar to Earth’s fictions of another world, it clearly didn’t get the memo. And that’s one big IF that I’m entertaining because if I don’t, I might actually crumble down and start crashing out.

  Ray tightens his grip on the pamphlet. “Wait—will the Princess be with us?!”

  Genovefa recoils. A quick glance at the king earns her only a wry sigh from him before she turns back with a smile so forced it creaks. “I am of your age and still in the midst of my education. Indeed, I shall attend. I am, however, a year ahead of the common students. I am your senior once you begin.”

  He crouches like he’s trying to suppress a whole tectonic plate of excitement, then straightens with a suspiciously serene face. He executes a smooth curtsy—as if he didn’t almost squeal earlier. “I’m glad to hear that. We’ll be in your care, dear Princess.”

  What the frick happened to him? He’s starting to speak Contemporary English like them too—syntax and all. Oh my God, I can’t with this motherfucker.

  Joshua steps forward, smiling like he’s auditioning for a period drama. “I share his sentiment, Princess.”

  Mark joins them, cheeks pink, voice gentle. “May you guide us and help us become blades worthy of the nations.”

  Everyone started talking Shakespearean?! Ah! They’re looking at me now.

  A dozen survival instincts fire off. My gaze ricochets around the room, anywhere except the king or princess. My brain fails to load anything dignified, so I go with the emotional equivalent of smashing random buttons on a controller.

  “It’s an honor to be led by the kuudere bishoujo.” I nod to myself. “Yep. Yup. Good. I’m in.”

  Leyni’s head whips toward me, eyes ablaze. “I comprehend not what accursed tongue you speak, but if thou hast slighted the crown, I shall—”

  “It’s not.”

  “It totally is though.”

  “Shut up, Ray.”

  After getting our first Magic Skills, we crash instantly in the same bedroom from last night. Sleep comes hard. By morning, we’re herded straight into preparations. Now we’re stuffing wardrobes into bags, cramming necessities wherever they fit, and staring at objects that shouldn’t exist here. Like a toothbrush—

  A mahogany-handled toothbrush.

  The bristles feel modern, like something I’d buy at the pharmacy back home. The handle looks like it belongs in a Victorian gentleman’s pocket. The cognitive dissonance is… fascinating.

  Once we finish packing, we finally leave the palace—and the sight that greets me absolutely nukes my brain’s OS. Medieval German architecture stretches in every direction, vast timber frames and sharp gables arranged with absurd symmetry. Everything looks both elegant and durable, as if each building could tank a blizzard, a drought, and a minor earthquake without breaking a sweat. Then, slotted haphazardly among them, I spot design elements that absolutely don’t fit: a wrought-iron gate straight out of the eighteen-nineties, pavement work that looks nineteen-nineties municipal, and coaches rumbling along that belong in the Industrial era.

  One of those coaches screeches to a halt before us. A butler steps out, opens the door without a word, and we climb in. The carriage lurches forward almost immediately, rattling along the road.

  It’s an hour’s ride to Acshe Academy, so we end up talking. Not deeply—just the kind of conversation you have while pretending you’re not freaking out. I try coaxing them into revealing their Magic Skills, but they guard that info like they’re nuclear launch codes. Thankfully, Joshua suggests we at least share the basics for future teamwork.

  Reluctantly—painfully—the other two agree.

  What I get is… predictable. Ray has a fire-related skill. Mark’s is electric. Joshua’s is earth-related.

  Classical starter-pack skills distribution. They start boasting about hypothetical techniques they “already planned,” which is hilarious because none of us can cast anything yet. Reality eventually catches up and slaps them across the face, and they fall into embarrassed silence.

  So we sit there, the four of us, staring out the window as the strange hybrid city scrolls past—our reflection trembling in the glass, like we’re not entirely sure we belong in it.

  And in that hush, my mind drifts back to my Magic Skill they apparently found underwhelming—turning it over, polishing it with thought. The more I examine these abilities, the more they feel like riddles rather than tools. Each one seems less like a spell and more like a conceptual playground. Not the clean, categorized systems from stories, but something vague, elastic—its power stretching or shrinking depending entirely on the wielder’s creativity and proficiency

  A skill that “freezes water” is a locked box: precise, obedient, limited to the shiver of molecules turning rigid. But a skill that “freezes things”… that’s a question disguised as a power. What even constitutes a “thing”? Water, sure. Stone, probably. Air, maybe. Heat, movement—why not? If the definition is broad, the possibility is dizzying. Could such a user freeze the moment a blade swings toward them? Could they halt motion itself? Perhaps anything is possible, as long as the mind can craft the method—like the difference between dribbling down a court and launching a clean three-pointer. Same sport. Different mastery.

  Still, beneath my spiraling thoughts, gratitude glows steady and warm. This school—this chance to learn, to sharpen myself, to understand the rules of a world that needs us—feels like a gift. Six years. That’s the time the princess said the nations can hold their ground before our strength is called upon.

  Six years to grow. To learn. To adapt.

  I intend to make every moment count, every learning sharpen my edge, just to satiate my curiosity and pry open a possible door back to Earth.

  “Finally.” Ray lifts his arms overhead and stretches until his bones make a sound like popcorn. He peers up at the academy gates with a wide grin. “Alright. This is the very first arc. We’re gonna learn and become strong!”

  I internally scream. I swear one more meta comment from this dude and my soul will sprout legs and walk away.

  An attendant approaches at a crisp pace, his dark-gray uniform pressed so sharply it could slit a fingertip. He bows with a graceful dip. “Sir Heroes, welcome to Acshe Academy. Our institution is distinguished as one of the select private Magical Institutes. As one might anticipate, we serve as the Kingdom’s preeminent centre for magical inquiry and development.”

  My attention drifts past him to the buildings beyond the gate. Pale stone, thin spires—a different language of architecture from what I expected, yet something about its presence tugs something within me. The way he talks about it. The way the air around it hums with scholarship. It reminds me of the University of Greifswald back on, not in shape or silhouette, but in function—an old-world citadel of science that once pushed the boundaries of a medieval mind. A beacon for curious fools and reckless geniuses. Acshe feels like that kind of place.

  And then there’s its name.

  Axis.

  My brain can’t decide whether to marvel or snort. A medieval Greifswald parallel sharing the same name as the antagonistic coalition of Second World War… the symmetry is so bizarre it creates an unexplainable delight in me.

  “You’re making a weird face,” Joshua says as he bends down, invading my personal space like a large, concerned housecat. “You nervous or something?”

  I angle my face away. “Just fine.”

  The attendant clears his throat and presents a small set of keys, each with a tag tied neatly in string. “Your respective room numbers are indicated on the tags. The dormitory facilities are situated behind the main building. Please proceed to settle in.”

  We barely take a step before Mark lifts a hand. His polite-student mode activates. “Sir, are we going to have roommates?”

  The question tickles something in me. A private academy sounds fancy, sure, but exclusivity doesn’t magically produce infinite real estate. Even if Acshe is the kingdom’s pride in magical research, single-person dorms feel impossibly wasteful—especially with demonic incursions siphoning resources. So for the first time, I am curious to their trivial matter.

  The attendant nods. “Each room accommodates a maximum of two students. Naturally, male and female students are segregated.” His hands clasp together, a little ritual of tidiness. Then he turns his gaze to me. “However, Sir Shin shall find himself lodged alone. The academy has not the requisite number of gentlemen to provide him a companion.”

  A smile crawls up my face before I can beat it down. “Oh wahhh… I guess I’ll be alone, huh?”

  “You sound way too happy. You just want the room all to yourself, don’t you, nerd?”

  YES! I AM!

  A jitter of excitement bubbles in me—not the scholarly kind, not the elegant “gathering data” kind, but the raw, primal delight of I get my own space. A luxury room. In a magic academy. Alone.

  I lift the key like it’s a boarding pass to paradise.

  “Let’s goooooo!”

  The attendant leads us around the looming main building until the dormitory comes into view—massive, ornate, and financially irresponsible. The building is just as large as the academy itself, as if someone misread the blueprints and decided, “Why not both?”

  Once inside, we scatter in different directions, a migration of clueless soon-to-be students. I hunt down my new sanctuary: Room 299.

  The dormitory has two floors—girls below, boys above. Mine sits at the very end of the second floor, the final room, like a quiet punctuation mark.

  I walk the long hallway with my key card pressed to my palm. My boots make no sound on the thick carpet, and it’s strange how silence underfoot can create this illusion of prestige—like the building itself is swallowing noise to maintain dignity.

  My mind wanders until I suddenly blink at the plaque in front of me.

  Room 299.

  Indeed my room.

  Classes begin in two hours, which means I have ample time to inspect every corner, assess the layout, test the bed’s softness, maybe even sketch the first blueprints of how to turn this into my private kingdom.

  I slide the key toward the lock—and miss entirely. My hand trembles with childish excitement.

  Deep breath. Retry.

  And—there it is.

  Click.

  The door glides inward—and the world stops.

  Genovefa is… inside.

  Half-dressed. Half-shielded. Caught mid-change with a bundle of uniform fabric clutched to her chest. Morning light casts a soft luminescence upon her alabaster complexion—and for a fleeting, perilous instant, my gaze threatens to drift towards the exposed curves beneath her collarbones—her décolletage—

  Nope. No. Eyes up! Face—face only! Anywhere that isn’t soft and stimulating to look at!

  Panic, shock, and a rosy blush spread across her features, completely shattering that immaculate, royal composure. Honestly, I didn’t even know a human face could achieve this shade of crimson.

  Huh?

  I take an instinctive step back, suddenly questioning the plaque on the door. Yep. Room 299. My room. My private, gloriously solo room. Then I look back at her, confusion and embarrassment mirrored across our faces.

  “T—this is m—m—my room, ma’am…”

  Her eyes widen further, voice barely above a squeak. “Aren’t you far too early?!”

  What does that have to do with anything?!