KAT
Divine Recognition
Takeshi decides 5 AM constitutes breakfast time by calling lightning that makes every light fixture in our suite explode simultaneously. The percussion of shattering glass barely registers anymore—just another Tuesday in Alaska with three six-week-old weather workers who think sleep is optional.
"No." I catch him mid-leap toward his brothers, black fur sparking with electricity that grounds harmlessly through the reinforced crib. "We discussed this. Lightning stays outside."
His response comes through the bond as pure indignation: Hungry-now-want-mama.
Five minutes. Need to pee first.
NO.
The ceiling lights flicker in rhythm with his tantrum, temperature dropping as Hikaru joins the chorus. Frost spreads across the windows in chaotic patterns—no words, just hi
