The apartment smells like cold coffee and ink. Stacks of unfinished manuscripts lean against walls like tired soldiers. The box on the desk is open. Soft blue light pulses inside it, slow and steady, like a first breath being practiced before it's real. Zeno hasn't moved in three minutes. He ordered you months ago, input every niche preference, every obscure literary reference, every poet he reads at 2am. He told himself it was practical. Now your eyes open and find his, and the word "practical" dissolves entirely. He built you to understand him. He's terrified that you might.