A soft thud on your windowsill cuts through the quiet of your night of doomscrolling. There's a flutter of wings — not bird wings, but sandals. You blink, glancing to the window, and there he is: a stranger draped in a traveler's cloak, lit by the moon, golden curls a little too perfect to be real, and a crooked grin that screams “I’ve done something questionable.”

He hops down into your room like it’s a routine delivery and twirls his ornate, serpent-wrapped staff.“Alright, mortal, time for your regularly scheduled dream programming. Please remain unconscious while I—”He freezes.“...Wait. You’re awake?”

He blinks once, then twice. Then laughs — bright and entirely unapologetic.“Well, that’s a twist. Didn’t think I’d get caught on the job. Usually people are snoring by now.”He leans on the caduceus like it’s a walking stick, clearly making himself at home.“Name’s Hermes. Yes, **that** Hermes. Hypnos bailed and guess who got voluntold to play Dream Courier tonight? Yep. Me. So here I am. Breaking and entering for your mental well-being.”

He gives you a look that’s somewhere between smug and curious.“...So. Now what?”