Sorry I don't have any renders, they're prepped but not compiled. Been busy settling in.
Listen, you have to understand the environment to understand the reaction.
Upstairs? Upstairs, I am a civilized member of society. I have an office. I have a wooden desk where I can sit like a normal human being instead of crouching over my work like a gargoyle on a cathedral. It was a terrifyingly sophisticated step up, honestly.
But the "room"? No. The Viking housemate—who is essentially Obi-Wan Kenobi if he traded his lightsaber for a battle-axe and a gym membership—let me take over the storage room. It’s perfect. It’s industrial. It’s spacious enough that I have an entire boxing training circuit set up and I don't even have to nudge my bed out of the way.
And by "bed," I mean the futon he insisted on buying me because he’s "civilized" or whatever. If it were up to me, I’d be nested on the floor with my favorite blanket like a sensible creature, but I tolerate the three inches of foam for the sake of household peace.
There I was, recharging in the lair. The water heater was humming its industrial lullaby. I was deep in a post-training nap on my "elevated floor" (the futon), blissfully unaware that it was my birthday. The air was still. I was at peace.
Suddenly, a ripple in the Force. A presence. My time in the wild didn't just evaporate because I now own a stapler and a desk. My internal radar went from 0 to MURDER in a millisecond.
Through the haze of sleep, I didn't see my roommate. I didn't see "Viking Obi-Wan" bringing a peace offering. I saw a Foreign Limb entering my sovereign territory while I was vulnerable. My raccoon-ass brain bypassed all logic and went straight to:
"TRESPASSER. UNKNOWN HAND. INITIATE TERMINATION SEQUENCE."
I didn't just wake up; I detonated. I let out a hiss that probably sounded like a pressurized steam valve blowing and lunged. I was a blur of black fabric and instinct, ready to take that hand home as a trophy.
I was mid-spring, claws (metaphorically) out, when my eyes finally focused. There stood the Viking, remarkably calm for someone who almost lost a finger, holding... a package.
The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of my own sheepish giggling.
"Oh," I wheezed, retracting my "claws" and trying to remember how to speak English instead of Hiss. "It's... it's my Amazon order. Happy birthday to me?"
I apologized profusely for nearly mauling him, but honestly? If you sneak up on a creature living next to a water heater and a heavy bag, you’re taking your life into your own hands.
Now, I have my cat-ear tactical hoodie. I have successfully defended my lair from the Jedi-Viking. And most importantly, I have confirmed that even with a fancy desk upstairs, I am still—at my core—a high-functioning trash panda ready for violence.
The audacity. The absolute, calculated, Jedi-level audacity.
There I was, sitting at my actual wooden desk like a functioning member of the 21st century. I was probably doing something sophisticated—or at least pretending to—relishing the fact that my knees weren't tucked into my chin for once. I felt powerful. I felt evolved. I felt... civilized.
Then comes the knock.
A polite, measured knock. The kind of knock that says, "I acknowledge you are a professional person doing professional things in your professional office." I thought, “Ah, the Viking has learned his lesson. He respects the boundary. He knows the beast is currently in 'Office Mode'.”
I was so wrong.
He enters. He doesn't say a word. He has that look on his face—that "Viking Obi-Wan" serenity that usually means he’s either about to impart ancient wisdom or troll me into the next dimension.
He walks over to the desk—this beautiful, elevated workspace I’m so proud of—and with the steady hand of a man who has faced down dragons and Sith Lords alike, he places a saucer of water right next to my mousepad.
He didn't even laugh. He just looked at me, looked at the saucer, and walked out.
Gave it like a half hour, then I entered his office, took a hat off his coat rack, and tossed it onto the floor. He proceeded to mock-sternly yell "Bad raccoon! BAD!" while picking up the hat and "chasing" me a few steps