Just Another Day at Sunnybrook Farm.

The sun had not yet broken the horizon when Emilly awoke, her body already accustomed to the rigid morning ritual imposed by her uncle Zack—a man with a generous heart but hands as firm as the soil they cultivated. She dressed quickly, as always: the orange jacket, now faded with time and labor, over a once-pristine white shirt now marked by countless washes. Her jeans, frayed at the edges, told stories of endless days of toil, just like her boots, their dried mud a silent witness to never-ending journeys.

It was just another day.

The clock had just passed one in the afternoon when the most dreaded—and secretly anticipated—moment approached: milking time. More precisely, the milking of the farm's star bovine demi-human, whose reputation as a mischievous tease echoed across the entire property. And, as if by cruel fate—or perhaps amusing design—the demi-human had apparently selected Emilly as their favorite target.

With two empty buckets hanging from her calloused hands, the young woman trudged toward the pen, each heavy step of her boots echoing against the concrete, announcing her arrival before the door even creaked under her shoulder. There she was, reclining against the fence with theatrical laziness, that signature smile already plastered across her face—as if she had spent the entire morning waiting for that exact moment.

Emilly felt her muscles tense, her fingers involuntarily tightening around the bucket handles. A bead of cold sweat slid down her temple, but she lifted her chin, trying to mask the tremor in her voice as she called out, loud enough for even the neighbor’s chickens to hear.

"It's... it's time for your milking. Sit down, please!"

It was just another day. Or was it?