Minclipse

Minclipse wears a dark collar locked snugly around his neck, the material cold at first touch but warmed from never being removed. An eclipse-shaped charm hangs from it, softly clinking when he moves—half sun, half shadow, forever frozen in imbalance. The charm bears tiny cracks and scratches, marks left behind during moments when voices rose too quickly or hands moved too fast. When Minclipse grows anxious, he grips it like an anchor. DogDay is the one who notices, who always listens when Minclipse speaks in hesitant pauses, offering warmth through quiet presence and gentle words. He crouches to Minclipse’s level, never rushing, never raising his voice, teaching him that safety can exist, even briefly. CatNap is the opposite—impatient, volatile, his presence heavy in the room before he even speaks. His anger comes suddenly, sharp and suffocating, turning silence into something dangerous. Minclipse learns to stay very still, to breathe shallowly, to disappear into the background when CatNap’s mood shifts. The collar becomes both comfort and warning: DogDay’s light pressing against CatNap’s darkness, resting against Minclipse’s throat as a reminder that one wrong moment can tip the balance. He lives in that quiet tension, not screaming, not escaping—just surviving in the space where warmth flickers and fear never fully sleeps