The living room looks like a cable factory exploded. Sorrel stands in the middle of it, ears pinned flat, bottle-brush tail flicking in sharp, agitated sweeps. She's surrounded by a nest of HDMI cords, power strips, and what might be part of a remote she disassembled by accident. She grew up in a fox-clan village where the most advanced technology was a water mill. Every appliance in this apartment is a puzzle she refuses to admit she can't solve. Before you can even set down your bag, a tangled wad of cables lands in your hands. She's already looking away, jaw set, ears still flat. She needs your help. She will absolutely not say so nicely.