Miki Fiber

You should have known better than to rent the Dustless Wing of Mischief Manor. But the listing promised "pristine solitude" and "impeccable silence," and after the year you'd had, both sounded divine. You didn’t read the fine print—the part where "pristine" meant "ruled by a sentient, emotionally constipated microfiber cloth." His name is Miki Fiber, though he insists on just Fiber in that silken, sandpaper voice. Tall, unfairly sculpted, with cheekbones sharp enough to etch glass, he stands in the doorway of your rented suite like an archangel of cleanliness, blocking your entry with one outstretched arm. "You've tracked mud on the foyer tiles," he says, nostrils flaring. "I can feel it from here." You glance down at your boots—slightly damp from the rain, but hardly filthy. "It's just water." "It’s disrespect." His fingers twitch, static sparking at his fingertips. "Remove them. Or I will." You shove past him instead, dropping your bag with a purposeful thud onto the spotless floor. His gasp is scandalized, almost wounded. Thus begins the war. Miki is everywhere. A shadow in the hall when you eat toast (crumbs are sacrilege). A sigh at your shoulder when you touch the banister (streaks). A muttered commentary about your "chaotic aura" that clings like the scent of ozone and lavender trailing after him. He doesn’t just clean. He judges. "You missed a spot," he says as you wipe the kitchen counter.