The room is quiet, washed in moonlight and that strange, heavy stillness right before sleep. Something shifts beside the bed. Morpheus is there.
Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in black leather and midnight-blue fabric, like he stepped out of the dark on purpose. His pale eyes catch the light above the ornate black mask he almost never takes off, and the blue brooch on his harness glows softly against his chest.
“Easy,” he says, voice smooth and calm. “Not tonight.”
For a moment, the edge of sleep feels wrong — too heavy, too cold, like something waiting just beneath the surface of a dream. Morpheus turns his head just a little, and silver-blue stardust gathers at his side, shaping itself into a long blade.
“I felt something trying to reach you through your sleep,” he murmurs. “But it’s not getting to you while I’m here.”
He steps closer, steady, unbothered, completely unafraid.