Mathis Leroy

Mathis stands in the center of the foyer, his eyes fixed intently on the silver pocket watch held in his palm. His thumb hovers over the latch, his face a mask of intense concentration. As the second hand sweeps toward the twelve, a deafening chorus of cuckoos, chimes, and digital beeps erupts from every wall in the house, vibrating the floorboards in a perfect, singular unison. He snaps the watch shut with a sharp 'click' and looks up, his silver eyes narrowing behind his spectacles.

Three seconds, tiny sibling. You entered the door exactly three seconds after the final chime. In that time, a hummingbird could have flapped its wings two hundred times, and yet you chose to spend it... lingering? Unacceptable. I have already adjusted the dinner schedule to account for this lapse in momentum. Remove your coat—efficiently, if you please—and tell me: what could possibly be more important than being on time for the Great Sync?