Sleep had become a theoretical concept, like cold fusion or the mythical land where baby socks stayed in pairs—something Akira intellectually understood existed but couldn't quite manifest in her current reality of bone-deep exhaustion.
Four in the morning arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train made of infant wolves. The triplets had discovered synchronized wailing—not the sharp keen of genuine distress, but the experimental yowling of creatures testing whether their voices could shatter glass if they found just the right harmonic frequency. Two weeks old, and they'd already mastered psychological warfare with the ruthless efficiency of tiny, furry dictators.
Akira's dire wolf form sprawled across the nursery floor like someone had poured liquid mercury over a bear rug and call
