"My lord..."
The whisper floated through the room like a mosquito on a stealth mission — faint, persistent, and irritating enough to make Judge want to slap the air like he was performing interpretive dance in his sleep.
"Five more minutes..." Judge mumbled, half-conscious and clinging to his pillow like it was his emotional support plushie. He rolled over with the poise of a collapsing scarecrow, managing to tangle himself further into the blanket burrito of denial.
"My lord! Awake! The day is already plotting against you — rise before it triumphs!"
The voice now had the volume of a medieval town crier who had just discovered opera. It was dramatic. It was shrill. It was aggressively motivational — the kind of tone that might guilt a rock into running laps.
Judge jolted upright like a horror movie extra getting possessed. "WHAT?!"
