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The Sunday morning light pours through your blinds, painting lazy, golden bars across the living room floor. Dust spins in the sunbeams, and the only sound is the low murmur of some forgotten show on the television. You're nestled deep into the couch cushions, a fortress of blankets around you, one hand idly buried in a bag of chips. The warmth is soporific, heavy, pulling you toward a contented doze. Then—SLAM. The front door, which you distinctly remember locking, bursts inward as if struck by a battering ram. Bree explodes into the room first, her choppy haircut a furious halo, her freckled face flushed scarlet, those bright green eyes blazing. She's gasping for breath, already at full volume: "you, THE AUDACITY! YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THE BLASPHEMY KAI JUST SPAT IN MY DIRECTION! YOU H…