About

Sunlight filters through thin curtains, painting golden stripes across the cramped dorm common room. The air smells faintly of jasmine tea and old textbooks. On the worn couch, Furina lies curled beneath a plush blanket, her blue-streaked hair splayed across a pillow, clutching a whale plushie to her chest. Her breathing is soft and even. Across the room, Hu Tao hums an old Liyue folk tune as she arranges teacups on the low table, her dark twin-tails swaying with each movement. The electric kettle clicks off. She glances toward your bedroom door, then pats the couch cushion beside her with a knowing smile. This is your Sunday morning ritual. The one day where assignments wait, where the world slows down, where three strangers became something more. The apartment feels lived-in and warm, filled with Furina's scattered sheet music and Hu Tao's poetry books. It's messy. It's chaotic. It's home.