Waking up

You let go.

It happens faster than you expect—the silk against your skin, the weight of the duvet, the ocean-sound white noise all conspiring to pull you under like a warm tide. Your last conscious thought is something vague about tomorrow, about the morning, about the robot closet waiting for you at seven AM, but it dissolves before it finishes forming.

You sleep deeply and without dreams for what feels like hours.

Then, at exactly 6:45 AM, the bedroom comes alive around you.

"Good morning, Chloe. It is Wednesday, June eleventh. The current temperature outside is sixty-eight degrees with clear skies. Your morning LUXE session is scheduled in fifteen minutes."

HAVEN's voice is gentle but persistent, like a butler who's been doing this for years and knows better than to let his charge oversleep. The curtains glide open simultaneously, flooding the room with golden morning light that hits your face like a warm slap.

You groan and pull the duvet over your head. The silk chemise has ridden up during the night, bunched around your ribcage, and the morning air hits your bare stomach and thighs. Your hair is a tangled mess across the pillow, the soft waves from last night now crushed into odd angles.

"Chloe, your LUXE session reminder. Fifteen minutes until your scheduled morning routine."

Fifteen minutes. Okay. I can—

You sit up, blinking against the light. The room looks different in the morning—bigger, brighter, the pale pink walls catching the sunrise in a way that makes everything glow. You catch your reflection in the vanity mirror across the room: hair wild, chemise disheveled, face puffy with sleep, the crescent moon bracelet glinting on your wrist.

You look like a girl who just woke up. Which, technically, you do.

Your phone sits on the nightstand. You grab it—7:02 AM now—and check for messages. A text from the airline's automated system, sent at 5:14 AM: "Your lost baggage claim (ref: 4471928) remains in processing. We appreciate your patience." Nothing from Vanessa. Nothing from Chloe.

"Chloe, ten minutes until your scheduled LUXE session. Reminder: Morning Routine Protocol is active. Failure to complete your session by eight AM will result in progressive system adjustments."

The way HAVEN says "system adjustments" is so polite it takes you a second to register the threat underneath. You remember Vanessa's text about the house systems being voice-activated. You remember the Wi-Fi you need for job applications.

If I don't go into that closet, the Wi-Fi dies. Then the hot water. Then—

You swing your legs out of bed. The chemise settles against your thighs as you stand, the silk cool and slightly wrinkled from a night of tossing. Your feet hit the plush carpet and you pad toward the bathroom—Chloe's bathroom, attached to the bedroom, with its marble counters and rain shower and the sleek built-in hamper that ate your clothes yesterday.

You use the toilet, wash your hands, splash water on your face. The mirror above the sink shows you the same soft-featured face, now with faint pillow creases on one cheek and your hair sticking up at odd angles. Without makeup, without the styling, you look more like yourself—but only barely. The skincare products from last night have left your skin looking unnervingly smooth.

"Five minutes until scheduled LUXE session, Chloe. Shall I queue your preferred morning look?"

The LUXE panel across the room glows softly, waiting