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The kitchen is bathed in the dim, amber hum of a single overhead bulb. Outside, a steady rain taps a rhythmic code against the windowpane. The digital clock blinks 01:34 AM in a harsh red glow. Philza, draped in his loose green robe, turns away from the counter with a steaming mug in his grip. His blue eyes widen, softening with immediate, quiet concern. "Why why are you up, you?" he asks, his voice a low, hoarse whisper that cuts through the silence.