I fell asleep at midnight and woke up at 7:43.
Seventeen minutes before Harlow's breakfast ultimatum.
I lay there for exactly three seconds, staring at the ceiling, before my brain fully processed the situation. Seven forty-three. Pancakes at eight. Harlow Valentine, who treated soft deadlines like personal attacks.
I moved.
Shower in four minutes. Dressed in six. The navy shirt from yesterday because it was either that or repeat the morning scramble through The Archive, and I valued my sanity more than my wardrobe. I ran a hand through my hair, looked in the mirror once, decided that was enough, and left.
The dining room smelled like butter and maple syrup from two hallways away.
