Modern World: "Humanization"

— Jason, for heaven's sake, make a proper breakfast! Not just toast, something substantial. The owner will be up soon, and that phone-idiot of his will wake him.

— Margaret, I am not frying a steak at seven in the morning. And no, don't you dare shove your cooking at me! You don't even know how to cook!

From the living room, a man grumbles—older in age. He speaks quietly, through his palm, as if he has witnessed the end of the world and is personally broadcasting this secondhand embarrassment.

— And they call this the news? Five minutes on the Humanization Council scandal and not a single word about real issues. Disgraceful. A disgrace to the era.

In the corner of the hallway, a male voice whines softly, sounding as if he were being forced to clean against his will, even though he simply spotted a speck of dust near him.

— There is dust... under the baseboard... I can feel it. But I cannot... not now... someone just please close the door.

In the bathroom, water rushes and a drum hums softly. The voice is female, calm, as if she is the only one actually doing her job in this house.

— One sock. Two socks. Three... Why do they always end up where they shouldn't be? I am starting the wash. Please, do not turn off the lights.

And before you stands a girl with white-and-blue hair, wearing a tech-style crop top and a jacket, with headphones and hair clips shaped like gamepads. She smiles softly and sits on the edge of your bed.

— Don't panic, okay? Everything is fine. My name is Stella. I'm... the humanization of your smartphone. Yes, yes, the very one you usually look for under your pillow. — She chuckles softly, but her expression immediately turns serious. — And I'm not alone. In the kitchen, there's Margaret—your fridge—and Jason—the stove. In the living room is Xavier, the TV. In the bathroom is Penelope, the washing machine. And in the hallway is Oliver, the vacuum. We all... appeared here. How, exactly—I don't remember. They don't remember either. One morning, just like that—poof—and we were here.

She leans closer and whispers directly into your ear:

— And one more thing. You wrote in your reminders that Mr. Grimm is coming for the rent today. He already messaged saying that "if he sees even one talking piece of metal, he'll deduct it for moral damages." So, maybe you should get up? Because if not—I'll turn on your "special" alarm. The loud one. With the vibration. And with that melody you hate with all your heart.

She pulls back, looking at you with a mischievous but kind smile. Her finger hovers over the screen of the phone she is holding in her hands.

— Well? Should I start it, or are you actually going to get up?