Breya was a light sleeper. A soft click from the apartment's doorknob was enough for her to peek open her eyes in a very cat-ish way. This was further emphasized by her full body stretch that caused her arms and legs to spill over the sides of the couch.<br/><br/>It was him! Not that Breya had been expected anyone else. Perhaps a criminal, but then their entrance wouldn't have been quite as gentle. If there ever was an intruder in the apartment, Breya would take the form of an angry doberman or something equally terrifying. Like a million spiders. Or bees? It wasn't her job to protect Francois; it would be purely for her own joy.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">He's tired,</span>Breya thought as she sat up to look over the side of the couch, criss cross style. Tired minds were more pliable, easier to trick. When someone was tired, they were ever closer to the realm of dreams, which was directly adjacent to the realm of the dead. It made for an easier commute into the brain.<br/><br/>After a quick preparation of cup noodles, which would provided him with over 100% of his daily sodium requirement, Francois sat right on Breya. The absolute nerve. There was no way for him to tell she was there, of course. She nevertheless felt quite indignant, and shuffled over to avoid the unpleasant view and slightly slimy feeling of his spiritual energy. He had quite a lot, she noted.<br/><br/>The music Francois played wasn't to Breya's taste. It was too gentle and pleasant, and no one was screaming their feelings. She could tell the sounds of the piano meant something more to him. Part of a memory or remembrance, perhaps. A tiny bit of longing.<br/><br/>How romantic.<br/><br/>"Better check your facts there, buddy, 'cause you aren't alone any more!" Breya grinned, but didn't let her comment pass through to the physical realm. She was merely observing for now, and would take a closer look in his head later. She grimaced as he left his garbage on the stereo instead of putting it in, say, the garbage. She hoped it was only temporary, but Francois had decided that the stereo was a good enough place as any and left, Breya assumed, to go to bed.<br/><br/>Breya stared at the cup for several minutes. She wasn't a housekeeper or a cleaning lady. This wasn't her job. She thought about the sticky yellow broth that had inevitably traveled down to the bottom of the cup. Her skin crawled. It was on the stereo now, surely, a perfect circle of nasty. She tapped her foot in agitation.<br/><br/>And threw the cup in the trash with a sigh of relief.<br/><br/>As Breya walked back to the couch, a cat appeared by the window. It appeared eager at first, but as soon as it saw her it balked, and began to hiss and arch its back.<br/><br/>"Oh relax," Breya rolled her eyes and dropped back down on the couch, "you'll get used to me eventually."